


Stripped

by ComeAlongPond14



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Other, Ownership, Possessive Sherlock, slave - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:47:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeAlongPond14/pseuds/ComeAlongPond14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Sherlock AU.] John Watson is jobless, hopeless, and struggling to care for his alcoholic sister. Then he stumbles into the grasp of Jim Moriarty, who's intrigued by this stubborn man with a good heart but a quick bite. Desperate to protect Harry and stay alive, John makes a deal with the devil that will change his life completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Make A Deal With the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Trying my hand at real fic-writing, as in plot, not just PWP (whut is this concept.). I'm excited about where i want to take this idea, so I really hope y'all like it!

The street-lamp flickered dismally as darkness settled over the grimy London road. There was no one about anymore, really; everyone had settled into their homes for the night, and the solitary man trudging along with his hands fisted deep in the pockets of his ratty jacket couldn’t help but stare longingly through the windows he passed. All these people whose families were intact and functional, who didn’t have to panic each day about where the next meal would come from, or how they would provide for those they were responsible for.

His stomach growled at him, as though he needed the reminder that he hadn’t found work that day. He dreaded returning to the miserable little bedsit he’d left his sister in. He knew the landlady was getting ready to kick them out, as she hadn’t seen a 6-pence worth of rent in over two months. Anything he earned immediately got spent on food and clothes, trying to clean his helpless sister up. He couldn’t even risk bringing money back; if she thought he had any, she’d steal it for cheap booze. It wouldn’t make her feel better, and he’d be rightly pissed, which would send her further into another down spiral. It was hopeless.

He reached his own street and paused, staring up at the window of their temporary home. A dim light flickered, indicating that she was still awake. Probably waiting for him to bring her food. His eyes stung as he imagined telling her for the third day in a row that he hadn’t found anything.

Irritably he scrubbed a hand across his eyes. He was an adult, and he had to take care of her--even if she was older than he was, the useless...No. He couldn’t resent her. She already hated herself. He wasn’t going to push her away and risk losing her like they’d lost their mum.

A sudden burst of loud laughter drew his attention to the pub across the road, where he could see two men stepping into the street. One was small and wiry, dressed impeccably in a pale grey suit that even from a distance, was clearly high quality and expensive. His eyes narrowed at the seemingly drunk man, who had an arm slung over his taller companion’s shoulders, contemplating what a wealthy man would be doing drinking in this part of the city. Unbidden, his feet carried him across the road, following where the two had headed toward the car lot behind the pub.

From the shadows, he could see that the second man was much less well-dressed, wearing scuffed jeans and a black t-shirt with an army-grade jacket that looked like it had fit him better when he’d had more bulk. His hair was shaggy and his face was prematurely lined; the dim light of a lamppost revealed a day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks. From the way he carefully maneuvered his drunken associate toward the black car ahead of them, he seemed to prioritize this man’s care about his own comfort.

No matter to the exhausted man watching them. This was a good mark for a swift pocket-picking, and maybe he’d be able to get a meat pie from the pub to take home. Hot, fresh food was too strong a motivator for him to bother calculating the risks. If he had, he would have seen that he was doomed.

He crossed the car lot at a swift pace, angling to intersect just behind the pair before they reached the car. A quick once-over indicated that there was a wallet in Soldier-Boy’s pocket, the corner of the leather just visible. He passed them just as the second man straightened up, laughing at something his companion had told him and replying in a low voice.

It could have gone smoothly. The would-be thief’s fingers were nimble, and he’d done this a dozen times in the last few years, desperate for money. It should have gone well. He had skimmed the cotton of the jacket, had felt the hard edge of the leather wallet between his fingertips as he twisted his shoulders, as though brushing hurriedly past them.

A vice-like grip closed around his wrist, and he gasped in shock as he was abruptly twisted around, his arm being bent awkwardly and pinned against his lower back, and he was forced to his knees from the excruciating sting of it. It was Soldier-Boy who held him down, and he began shaking with fear as the other--who was very suddenly not drunkenly weaving, or remotely unbalanced--stepped in front of him, gazing down at him with a cold curiosity gleaming in his disturbingly black eyes. His hands slipped into the pockets of his perfectly tailored trousers as he regarded the hunched man before him, studying him like a specimen on display for analysis.

“Well, now, you certainly don’t look the sort for petty crime, sonny-boy. What on earth made you try that little stunt?” His voice had a beautiful Irish lilt to it, but there was an undercurrent of threat that made his captive’s hair stand on-end. He shuddered.

“I...I didn’t, I’m not--I’m just--I’m desperate, mate, I’m sorry--”

A waved hand silenced him. “Enough. What’ve you got to be desperate about, then? You look sturdy enough, could work in a factory or something.” A handsome leather shoe lifted, and he nudged the kneeling man’s leg contemptuously, as though mocking his solid build.

Fear and hunger were making him jumpy, and he attempted to lunge free, suddenly wanting to rip into this arrogant Irish bastard.

Fire seared through his shoulders and back as the soldier restrained him almost effortlessly, digging one knee into the small of his back to cripple his struggling. He let out a low groan of rage as he subsided.

Those fathomless dark eyes were glittering as he evaluated the subdued man. “What is your name, sonny-boy?”

Pain and anger laced his voice with venom. “John.”

“Johnny, what?”

“John,” he spat savagely, not willing to tolerate the condescending pet name. “John...Watson.”

“Mmm.” The Irishman circled him, tapping a slender finger thoughtfully against his lip as he considered. “What made you desperate enough to pick pockets, Johnny boy?”

John gritted his teeth hatefully. “I...I have someone depending on me. I need the money.”

This made the other man pause. “You have someone--you’re stealing pocket books to take care of another person?” His tone was incredulous. “You have the starved-pit-bull look of a man backed into a corner, ready to come out biting, Johnny boy, what’re you doing looking after someone else?” He heard the grumble of John’s stomach-- _Now?? John thought at it irritably, Why do you have to pipe up now?_ \--and he grinned maliciously. “When did you last eat, Johnny boy?”

“My name is John,” he said coldly. “And piss off.”

This earned him a solid cuff to the back of his head from Soldier-Boy, who still hadn’t said a word. John yelped, and through the ugly ringing in his ears now, he heard that damn Irish voice say teasingly, like chiding a kid, “Now, Seb, he’s just snarling like the good hungry puppy he is. Can’t break too quickly, even as close to shattering as he is.”

Suddenly he was in front of John again, crouching in front of him, and John did growl out loud as cold fingers slid under his chin, forcing his face up. Stormy blue eyes met beetle-like black. The Irishman looked downright...ravenous. John’s stomach suddenly twisted with a new kind of fear.

“How would you like to have those problems solved, Johnny boy?” An idle smirk flashed across his face. “Whoever it is you’re being oh-so-noble for, I could get them looked after. What’s wrong with them?”

Much as John was longing to bite the fingers caressing his skin and then bolt to freedom, he was beginning to realize he was well and truly fucked. And more than that...the possibility of getting proper help for his self-destructive sister was just a bit too good to resist out of pride. Or self-preservation.

“My sister.” His voice was hoarse and airless, and he had to swallow and lick his lips in order to speak. The Irishman tracked the flesh of pink muscle with a rabid excitement in his bottomless eyes. “My sister, she’s, she wrecked herself on booze. We’ve got no one else. I’m the only one who’ll try and help, but she’s...I can’t get her to quit. And I can’t even fuckin’ feed her, can’t get a job, or...” He trailed off, grief closing his throat. Perhaps all he was accomplishing was getting both he and Harry murdered. Idiot.

The fingers on his jaw tightened, maybe his eyes snap up again. The man’s face was so impassive and calculating. It sickened him.

Abruptly he stood. The hand on his cheek slid to his hair, and he shuddered as he felt it caressing, stroking through the uncombed strands.

“What would you do if I had Seb let you go right now, Johnny boy?”

The pet name erased whatever flickering hope he’d wanted to feel about getting Harry help. “I’d most likely knock your teeth in and run for it.” The grip tightening warningly on his arms hurt like hell, but he didn’t regret his words.

To his dismay, that answer prompted a deep, genuine laugh. “Oh, good, GOOD, Johnny boy! Not willing to lose your spirit, that’s for certain. Oh, I could have some fun with you. I think I will.”

And then he was crouching again, gripping John by a handful of his hair, grinning as he yelped in pain, and leaning close to speak to him heatedly. “I’ll offer you a deal, Johnny boy, and I think you’ll agree it’s a tough one to refuse. If you come along and behave yourself for me, like a good dog, I’ll see to it that you’re looked after, take care of you myself--” John must’ve looked confused at that, because very abruptly his captor leaned in, slamming his mouth against John’s, attacking his lips in a bruising, fierce kiss that felt more like a bite, repulsing him-- “--so long as you play by the rules, and do as you’re told. Whatever you’re told. You do any job I give you, you obey my orders.”

Seeing John’s horror at his words, he grinned. “It’s not just sweet for you, Johnny boy. Do it, and I take your sister away, put her in the best rehab program in existence, and get her life together. You wouldn’t be jumping meal-to-meal trying to keep her alive. She’d get it under control and be able to look after herself. How does that sound?”

It sounded too good to be true, that was for damn sure. John stayed absolutely still, chest heaving, unable to believe what he was hearing. “What...what kind of jobs would I have to do?” His voice was just a whisper, which annoyed him, but he was just too far out of his depth.

Those cold features twitched into an alarming grin. “Whatever I say, Johnny boy. I own a string of...leisure clubs, if you will. I need handsome lads like you to keep my clients happy.”

John felt the blood drain from his cheeks at those words. His voice cracked. “You want to pimp me out in exchange for helping my sister?”

The Irishman snorted, looking up past John, presumably at the man he’d called Seb. “Charming, isn’t it. He goes from a snarling dog to a saintly prude in a flash.” Ducking his face back down, he tugged painfully on John’s hair. “Well, I suppose that’s a good descriptor, though...right down to the fun little detail where I get to play with you anytime I like. But if you think you can clean her up yourself, Johnny, by all means--well. I say that, but if I let you slip away now, I imagine you’ll find yourself having an ugly ‘accident’ at some point soon. What do you think, Seb?”

“I’d say that’s guaranteed, boss,” the man still holding John said, his voice a low rumble that made John jump. His mouth opened and closed helplessly a few times. “You--so--you’re saying I do this or die?” Hysteria was threatening to overwhelm him. “What the hell--who the fuck are you?”

The other man grinned ferally and stood, straightening his jacket meticulously. “Call me Jim, Johnny boy, and that’s all you need to know. I think it’s a rather good offer, really, but then again, I’m the one getting the sweet end of it.” His gaze roamed over John’s body, making him nauseous. “But I won’t force you. Really,” he added with a chuckle, when John gave him a withering glare. “Your decision, Johnny boy. Make it.”

John breathed shallowly, in and out, trying to make sense of the hell he’d just stepped into. He thought of Harry, alone in that rotten little bedsit, waiting for him, scared and alone. He retched abruptly, dry-heaving as his body tried to expel the knots that were twisting his gut. He’d half-hoped Seb’s grasp would loosen as he shook, but there was no give.

Jim suddenly spoke up, his voice sing-songy and horrifying. “I’m surprisingly less patient than I let people believe, Johnny, and I really won’t ask multiple times.” He drew out a phone, checking the screen, and gave John one last cursory glance. “Maybe I’ll just have Seb snap your little neck and leave you here for someone to find...when do you suppose they’d tell your sister?”

John flinched as Seb leaned over him threateningly, and his voice came out as a yelp. “Okay--yes! God, oh God, help me...yes, I’ll do it.” He stared up at Jim, eyes stinging. “You swear you’ll help Harr--Harriet?”

The Irishman gave him a look of pure, psychopathic delight that sent icy chills all down his spine. “You’ve my word, Johnny boy. Behave yourself, and she’ll be well looked after.”

Swallowing down his pride, his grief, and the overwhelming fear, John nodded in response. Jim’s hand flicked, and before John could ask what happened now, he felt the solid weight of a heavy hand strike the back of his head, and whether it was just the blow, or the days of hunger and weeks of fear and the dizzying emotional exhaustion--John slumped forward, succombing to the darkness.


	2. Swing the Focus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eight months after being snatched up by Jim, John is living in misery, selling himself for his sister's sake. He tries to understand Jim, but it seems hopeless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Lying is the Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Off Her Clothes" by Fall Out Boy.
> 
> Just so no one starts getting annoyed by his absence, Sherlock is coming! Right up, as it were. ;)

The sporadic blinking of the strobe lights, muted by the thick haze of smoke from the cigars and cigarettes burning in every other hand, made it difficult for John to properly make out the facial features of the man sitting opposite him. It didn’t really matter, he supposed. He wasn’t there to get to know him. The man’s eyes roamed over him appreciatively, not bothering to hide his interest, and John suppressed a sigh. Jim had pushed him into the velvet chair at the dimly lit little table, told the client cheerfully that “Johnny” was at his disposal, and sauntered off with the promise to return.

While every fiber of John’s being hated this place, and his role, and the men who came here for shady business deals with Jim--John still didn’t know exactly what he did, professionally, but he was certain that he did not want to know--he knew that he couldn’t run. Harriet still needed him. Last time he’d seen her (on webcam, anyway; while Jim had begun allowing John out of his sight, he certainly never let him go far, and Jim had never bothered going to the rehab center himself), she was fighting a losing battle with her 12 step program, and she was nowhere near clean and sober yet.

His attention refocused with a jolt as the client leaned forward, one hand sliding up John’s thigh. The black “uniform” trousers were very light cotton, letting the man feel every curve of muscle he was caressing. His eyes were hazy with lust and alcohol as he glanced expectantly up at John. Adopting his best “asking for it” expression (why Jim insisted he pretended to like it, he didn’t know, none of these men cared if he wanted them, as long as he behaved), John tilted his head, licking his lips as though in invitation.

The client’s mouth had barely grazed his when he heard a terse Irish voice snap from behind him. “Johnny. Come here.”

He jerked back slightly, startled by the anger in Jim’s voice. He had given up resisting his “employer” months ago, and lately he thought he’d been behaving himself pretty well. What could he have done wrong this time?

The client looked sulky, but there was something about Jim that made even men three heads taller than him and twice as bulky shy away from a fight. It might have been the slightly wild glint of madness in his dark eyes, promising a violent end to any challenger, or perhaps it was Seb, always hovering a few feet behind, silent and ready to kill on Jim’s command. John still didn’t know anything more about Seb other than that he was, as John had guessed the first night, ex-military, and that he only spoke or really seemed to make his presence known when Jim required him to do the dirty work. John had heard Jim call the soldier “Tiger” before, but though he knew Seb was on the same short leash he was, he really could not determine how the man felt about their “master.”

He was on his feet and moving to where Jim waited, face ducked down submissively. A swirling blend of anger and shame at having to behave as though Jim had him cowed made his jaw clench so tightly it creaked, but he didn’t risk looking up.

When he was close enough to hear over the music--and for Jim to be able to touch him if he liked, something John despised--the Irishman reached up, his hand wrapping solidly around the back of John’s neck, and he used the grip to drive John toward the little black staircase that led up to the office marked “Manager.”

Once through the door, he flung John’s weight forward, letting him hit the floor on his knees. He grunted in pain, but did not try to rise, resting his weight on his hands. Steel-toed combat boots filled his vision as Seb stepped in front of him, and then he felt the cool steel of handcuffs encircling his wrists. His eyes stung with tears that he absolutely refused to let spill. Cuffs meant punishment, which meant he’d end today with an aching jaw or unable to walk right. Or both. Fuck.

For a split second his eyes darted up to stare challengingly at Seb, but the soldier just gazed back at him impassively. He never showed emotion. Perhaps Jim had broken him a long time ago, and John would never know what he really thought.

Then Seb stepped back, and Jim strode past him to sink into the armchair behind his desk, eyeing John with his usual clinical interest, sparking with a carnal kind of want that made John feel sick. He stared at where Jim’s shirt was unbuttoned at his throat, heart pounding.

The madman leaned forward, steepling his fingers as he analyzed John. “I’ve gotten a call from the rehab center.”

John’s head jerked up involuntarily, terrified. Jim waved a dismissive hand. “She’s fine. Well, not fine. She’s not injured or anything. She’s just relapsed.”

Those dreaded words made the tears spring up before John could fight them back. Oh Harry....goddamn it. Was she even trying?

Jim leaned back, spreading his knees idly and stroking his fingertips along the fine material of his immaculate charcoal grey Westwood trousers. “They’ve gotten her under control. She’s in solitary while she gets it out of her system again. They think she’ll be back on the road to recovery in no time.” He arched an eyebrow at John. “But as you can imagine, this does raise the cost of her treatment.”

John swallowed back bile, hating this man so much more than ever. When it took more money to treat Harry, John was forced to put on a convincing performance and pleasure his demented sponsor. If he made his misery clear during the act, he had to do it again whenever Jim wanted it. And Jim always tried to provoke his hatred in order to make him perform poorly.

Taking a deep breath, John retreated emotionally to somewhere deep inside himself, far away from all of this, and focused on the role he had to play in Jim’s world. He raised his eyes, letting them go wide and glassy as he waited for Jim’s instruction. The man was aggressive, possessive, and often outright sadistic. Catering to his desire for dominance was a good way to get through this faster.

Jim’s lips curved into a cruel smirk. “Making a chore of me, are you, Johnny boy? I think you’re getting a bit complacent with our little arrangement.”

Well, fuck. John didn’t hide the panic that flashed across his face. He couldn’t stand it if he was beaten today. The scars on his back hadn’t healed from last month, yet.

Jim stood and moved close to him, grabbing a handful of John’s hair--it had grown out some, and he hadn’t dared ask Jim if he could get a trim--and yanking him forward, pressing his face against the outline of Jim’s hardening cock. John wanted to close his eyes and mouth tightly, block it out, but he couldn’t afford to. He let his lips part, his fearful labored breaths sounding like needy pants in the quiet office.

Jim was rough, forcing him against the fabric so that he couldn’t breathe properly, fingers biting painfully into his scalp until he couldn’t stop a yelp from slipping free. This just made Jim laugh, and he shoved him down again. Unzipping his trousers, he pushed his pants down his hips a little and freed his prick, stroking it lightly as he watched John struggle to right himself.

“I do like hearing your little sounds of pain, Johnny boy. You’re such a stubborn little dog, you just won’t make a peep unless I really hurt you. It’s glorious.” Stepping close again, he placed the head of his cock at John’s lips, smearing them with pre-cum. “Open up, Johnny boy. And don’t even think about biting me, if you do, I’ll order her detox to be done without sedatives.”

John had seen Harriet try to go cold-turkey and sober up without medical intervention. He had heard her screaming and punching walls, had listened as she suffered hallucinations and seizures that ended before he could dial 999. She needed to sleep until her body was clean again.

He shoved his pride aside and opened his mouth, sheathing his teeth with his lips and folding his tongue to make it easier when Jim thrust hard, his cockhead grazing John’s throat as he pushed in too fast and hard. John gagged, feeling saliva well up in his mouth and, unable to close his lips, it spilled over and dribbled down his chin and throat. He heard Jim’s satisfied little laugh, knew the Irishman loved seeing him so debased. Reflexively he tried to swallow, his throat tightening around Jim’s cock, knowing he liked that.

Those cruel fingers threaded into his hair again, and the brutal tug told him directly that Jim was on to his plan to try and get him off quickly. John relaxed, indicating his submission. He hated Jim with every fiber of his being, but he could not risk Harriet’s health or life over his pride.

Jim slid both hands into his hair, gripping his head to hold him still as he fucked his mouth with rapid, hard thrusts that made John choke and filled his eyes with tears, knowing he was becoming a mess, and knowing Jim loved it.

Abruptly the Irishman withdrew his prick, using the head to smear pre-cum and saliva and tears across John’s cheeks as he gasped for air. “Turn over, Johnny boy.” His voice was clipped and cold, and John whimpered miserably, but obeyed, turning slowly and letting himself slump forward.

“Good boy,” Jim murmured, and he flushed with loathing as he felt his trousers undone and shoved to his knees, baring his arse. Cold fingers, slick with the mixture of fluids staining Jim’s prick, began probing around his unwilling hole. But months of being toyed with, raped, and constantly over-stimulated into submission left him in a frail state, and Jim had little trouble stretching him to accommodate. Within moments, he felt the man’s cock slowly began penetrate him, pushing forward with no regard to the hiss of pain he emitted. His body strained for escape, trying to shy away, but Jim’s hands were like vices, keeping him trapped as he was impaled.

And then it became very fast. Jim breached him completely, growling obscenely, and then pulled out, only to thrust in swiftly, making John cry out in pain. From the way the thrusts into his abused body picked up pace, he imagined the sound of his agony was arousing to his rapist. He could not repress them, though, and whimpers and yelps of pleading continued to fall from his lips as Jim fucked him roughly on the office floor.

When he withdrew too quickly, and John heard the slick sound of him fucking his own fist, he groaned and dropped his head onto his bent arms, waiting. Sure enough, after a moment, Jim moaned in relief, and John felt hot cum splatter across his bare skin, dripping slowly down his arse and thighs. He shivered as the fluids began to cool on his skin.

Behind him, Jim stood, zipping his trousers and composing himself. “Well, Johnny boy, I wish I could say your performance was lacking--but you just made some goddamn gorgeous noises, didn’t you. I suppose you deserve a reward for that. You’ve paid for your sister’s failure, then.” Crossing to the door, Jim glanced back at where John still lay slumped forward, eyes closed. “Seb, get him cleaned up and back home. I need him for a meeting tomorrow...I have a tricky prospective client, and Johnny is a club favorite. Should help to win him over, the sod.” With that he sauntered out, the door closing behind him.

John felt Seb approach, but he didn’t move. Wet warmth brushed his skin, and he shuddered as he realized Seb was wiping him down carefully with a damp towel. It felt wonderful, but he couldn’t muster up a “thank you.”

“Why do you work for him?” The words sounded so pitiful, so helpless. He hated it. But he wanted to know.

Seb’s hand slowed for a moment, then resumed moving, still gentle. John got the feeling the man didn’t know quite how to speak anymore without Jim’s orders. “He...has a way with people. With getting them to do what he wants,” he said at last, softly.

John snorted, twisting onto his back and struggling with the handcuffs still on to pull up his pants and trousers. “You mean he’s a manipulative bastard who finds your weakness and brutally uses it.”

Seb’s lips quirked into a sad little smile, and he held out the key; John stopped struggling and let the soldier release his hands. He tried to stand, then found himself slumping back to the floor, his lower body in agony, his knees shaking.

Seb caught him, wrapping an arm around his waist. John felt filthy from the contact, but he didn’t fight it, letting the taller man support his weight. He scrubbed his hand angrily over his face, then stopped, repulsed to find it still soaked in tears and cum. Seb offered the towel, which he accepted irritably. “He can’t do this. I don’t..I just...”

The soldier shrugged, helping him sink into the armchair Jim had vacated. It was as cold as the man who owned it. “He has a...certain worldview. And he’s ruthless about getting things the way he wants them. I am sorry for you, you know. I wish you weren’t trapped here.”

John looked up, meeting the swirling eyes curiously. “You...don’t hate him, do you.”

Seb looked away. “You’ve been here eight months, and you’ve had to battle every moment to balance your nature with your predicament. I’ve been right behind him for five years.” His jaw tightened. “You learn to love what you need to survive.”

John heard an ugly sound tear from himself, a terrible attempt at a laugh. “You love him?”

The soldier’s eyes cut to him coldly. “I love what I do. I’m a soldier. I follow orders, I kill, I clean up the messes made by my superiors. I am the weapon. How he wields it, where he aims it...does not concern me.” He straightened. “You’re different. What he uses you for...you weren’t programmed for it. So it’s worse.”

John sniffed, feeling rather pathetic. “How did he get you? Did you have someone he threatened?” He knew it was a personal question, but it was the most words he’d heard out of this man in eight months, and he was curious.

Seb blinked, and the mask of indifference settled into place again. “No,” was all he said, before he stood, reaching for John’s arm and moving him out of the office and toward the exit. John winced as his inner muscles protested from the movement, but he didn’t say a word, allowing himself to be ushered into a waiting car, and driven back to the fortress-like townhouse where Jim lived, and where he was kept, the fighting dog turned into a sex toy for Jim’s personal and professional use.

If he could, he would cry, just allow the tears to slide freely down his face. But he never knew which of Jim’s employees might report to Jim about what he did when he was out of sight. So he sat silently, hands clenched in his lap, and tried not to think about whatever new torments Jim would have for him tomorrow.


	3. I Fell to Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim sends John to amuse a potential client. Things take a turn.
> 
> Chapter title from "...To Be Loved" by Papa Roach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not that it matters, since we all know our boys well, but I thought I'd include the specific photos that kind of guide my imagination.
> 
> The way I see John:  
> http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lrxnbwPDIV1qbqg62.jpg
> 
> Yes, yes, obviously no violin is used, but this 'Sherlock' scene is just SO "my" Sherlock. LOVE it:  
> http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mant2qjA4t1rov3vq.gif
> 
> And I'm combining Jim and Seb because, well, they are intertwined. I saw this art piece, and it was like....GUHYESIT'STHEM. So tons of thanks to the talented [bu-ko] on DeviantArt for this delicious MorMor:  
> http://bu-ko.deviantart.com/art/Moriarty-and-Moran-280860056

Mornings were mixture of good and bad for John. Because most of his business was handled at his clubs, Jim often liked to sleep in, which meant that John got a little time to himself. Even if it was just a cup of tea and reading the paper, at least he wasn't being harassed.

On the other hand, it usually also entailed nursing injuries from the night before. Some mornings, he couldn’t leave his bed.

This time, it wasn't so bad. He ached, and his stomach was cramping, but at least he could stand upright, and walk by himself.

There was a note on the counter from Jim, and he winced reflexively as he went over to read the sprawling handwriting. It was his schedule for that day. John groaned as he realized he was going to have to perform at the club, prior to whatever meeting Jim had mentioned the day before.

In the first weeks of his deal with Jim, John had only been called upon to stay beside him, much like Seb. Jim would wander from client to client, his soldier hovering faithfully a few steps behind, and one hand always resting possessively on John in some way. He had been, to his disgust, arm candy for the psychopath. Jim was charming--and most likely bisexual, as he flirted with patrons of both genders--but John gathered that when it came down to it, he preferred male company.

With a few weeks, he'd learned just how volatile Jim could be when he was defied. Each time he'd dragged John in for a kiss, or let his hand wander provocatively, John would recoil, sure that this couldn't be part of helping his sister.

He was corrected on that point very quickly. The first few times he had refused Jim, he had just been slapped across the face later. When it continued happening, he ended up bound and gagged in a soundproof room, with Seb beating the shit out of him, as Jim watched. He would scold John for refusing him, telling him that it would be far easier if he just obeyed. After the fourth time John went to bed with rope burns on his wrists, and bruises on his face, he finally accepted it.

Once his new image as Jim's personal plaything was established, the Irishman's business associations began to take more notice of him. And when the first request came to “rent” him for an hour or two, to John’s absolute horror, Jim gleefully handed him over, hesitating only long enough to hiss in his ear that he had better continue to behave if he wanted Harry to stay in rehab. 

And just like that, John’s transformation was complete. In exchange for his sister’s health, he had become a club dancer, a madman’s personal sex toy, and a whore for hire. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the abrupt turn his life had taken.

Not every client was hell, to be fair. Some just wanted a dance--humiliating, but far less so than being stripped down and forced onto a bed by uncaring men who didn’t even give him the preparation that Jim did. Psychopath though he was, the man at least made sure John would survive his assaults. After nights of being rented out, John usually only made it home because Seb would find him, and half lead, half carry him back.

That night began like any other. Jim brought him to the club, dressed in his usual evening wear; black slacks, comfortable loafers, a white t-shirt, and a dark grey, short sleeved button down that somehow both flattered and muted his blue eyes and muscular physique. If you noticed him, then he damn well stood out. If you didn’t, then he faded into the background.

Once inside, Jim sent him away. That was unusual; he was not often given freedom to wander in the club. Taking advantage of the anonymity allowed by not being trapped at Jim’s side, he drifted, sipping a glass of wine and watching other “staff” entertaining the clients. There were a few women who worked for Jim, most of whom appeared to be quite occupied in the laps of various men. Mostly, though, the toys were male. John leaned against the wall and stared around the room, taking in the young men who were being passed around, undressed, teased and bullied, and expected to smile seductively the entire time. It was sick.

He felt Seb approach before he saw him, materializing from the crowd like a fucking shadow. He raised an eyebrow, and Seb almost smirked, which was about the only response he ever gave to John’s looks or comments. He nodded at the stairs behind John--not to the Manager’s office, this time, but to a private lounge that Jim reserved for meetings with important potential business partners, men who required flattery and bribes to get them to sit down and discuss the deal.

John’s mouth twisted. “He was serious, then?” Seb merely looked at him, and he sighed and took a large swig of the wine. “Just once I’d like a night to myself.” But still, he turned and started up the stairs, feeling awkward as Seb followed closely behind, the heat of his muscular body disconcertingly close.

At the door he paused, knowing the rules. Seb stepped around him and knocked lightly. After a beat, they heard Jim’s voice drift out, that damned annoying sing-songy quality indicating that he was becoming a little unhinged. Well, more than usual, anyway. John set his jaw and followed Seb in.

The lounge was a pleasant room, despite the use Jim had for it. Hazily lit with shaded lamps in rosy hues, it had the feeling of an open-air parlour at sunset. A small fireplace gave it a cozy edge. The main focus of the room was the two armchairs and the sofa, facing each other across a mahogany coffee table. This currently held a decanter of wine and two glasses, untouched. Jim sat in his chair, legs crossed and fingers steepled, gazing intently at his guest.

When John first laid eyes on the man, his heart actually stuttered in his chest. He had not experienced genuine attraction to another man in many years, not since uni, but that was undeniably what blossomed low in his belly now.

He was beautiful. Tall, lean, with ethereal pale skin and thick dark hair that fell in roguish curls over his eyes. His features were striking, almost too angular to be considered good-looking, but he was certainly handsome. John’s eyes roamed over the sharp cheekbones and sculpted lips, then rose slowly to meet the eyes that had flashed to his face as he entered. Immediately he felt captured, illuminated by those eyes. They were blue like sea glass, yet somehow simultaneously steele grey and seafoam green.

He swallowed hard, then jumped guiltily as Jim stood swiftly, circling around to where he stood waiting. Seb melted into the shadows.

Jim’s eyes were flashing and cold, and he looked like he needed someone to lash out at. Before John could do anything but brace himself, Jim seized his wrist, sloshing the wine dangerously. “I don’t remember saying you could drink, Johnny boy.” His voice was a low, silky purr, and John immediately knew that he was in trouble. Suddenly he was praying for a client--be it this stranger or anyone else--to claim him tonight. Jim was terrifying beyond reason when he was pissed.

Just as abruptly, Jim had spun back to regard the man on the sofa, a charming smile back on his face. “Well, I’ll give you a moment to consider the conditions of the deal. I must keep an eye on my other assets, but I’ll be back. Alright, dearie?”

Those incredible eyes turned flint-like and cool as he stared impassively back at Jim, and he gave a slight nod.

Jim’s mouth stretched open, but it was more of a baring of teeth than a smile. He swung his hand, his palm coming into hard contact with John’s arse, which was still more than sore from the evening before. He bit down on the yelp that bubbled up, tears springing to his eyes as the abused muscles rippled away from Jim’s godawful touch.

Jim was speaking still. “...and he’s certainly a personal favorite. I’ll leave him for your amusement. Back in a flash, darling. Ta.”

The door opened, and Jim slipped back out into the noise and darkness of the club. Seb followed like a wraith, taking the wine glass from John as he did. He barely noticed.

The man on the sofa remained still, one leg crossed over the other, gazing into the fire now. His left hand sat on the arm of the sofa, the long pale fingers strumming the air as though he were playing the strings of an instrument. The other rested on his thigh, contracting every few seconds against his black Spencer Hart trousers.

John took a hesitant step forward, wincing as he did so, and then froze as those stunning eyes darted to his face. The man looked him over in one sweeping movement, and John felt as though his entire soul had just been surveyed.

“What is your name?”

Even his voice was beautiful, low and musical and somehow melancholy. John sucked in a breath. “John Watson.”

“Ah.” The slightest hint of a frown flashed across his face. “That’s why he mentioned ‘Johnny boy.’” He waved a hand at the table. “Wine? Since yours was reclaimed.” When John shook his head wordlessly, the other man looked him over once more. “You don’t belong here, do you?”

John looked down at the carpet, flushing. “Understatement,” he murmured. Peripherally, he saw the man raise one slender hand to carefully undo the first few buttons of his purple silk button down. Feeling as though the air of mystery had bled into the familiar grit of his “job,” John half sighed, and reached to undo the buttons of his shirt.

“Stop.” The voice was so commanding, so compelling. It was almost pleasure, rather than compulsion, that stopped John’s hands. He looked up, confused.

The stranger’s eyes were smouldering. “I apologize,” he said, gesturing at his collar. “I was merely warm. I did not intend for you to think I was planning to take advantage of you.”

John stared at him, utterly bewildered. “That’s...why I’m here.”

“No,” was the short reply. “That’s why he keeps you. That’s why you are in his club, dressed in clothes he has chosen, summoned to appease his clients. Whoever you really are, you’re a man of comfort and practicality, very loyal, and willing to sacrifice yourself for the protection and well-being of those important to you.” 

He stood suddenly, and John shivered as he strode over to John, staring intently down into his face. “You are absolutely not a toy, as he wishes you to be. He’s never broken you, as he intended to. He must know that, but he ignores it. Whatever he has to keep you here, it isn’t going to change. You really won’t run, will you.”

Before John could argue, one of the man’s hands had flashed up, curving to cup his cheek almost tenderly. A startled gasp slipped from him as he found himself being inspected in very close quarters. “You wouldn’t even run from me, a complete stranger. Why? What does this man have on you, John Watson?” He searched John’s wide eyes for a moment, reading the conflict there, and then an expression of clarity crossed his face. “Ah. Family. You are here to protect someone truly dear to you.”

As swiftly as everything else he did, he released John’s face and stepped away, striding to stand before the fireplace, hands folded neatly behind him. He stared into the flames, silent now.

John let out a breath. “How...I mean, did he tell you about bringing me here?”

“No.” He didn’t turn around. “I can see it, in your stance, the way you wear his clothes, your bodily responses to him, and your reactions to my deductions. I observe everything.”

John smiled weakly. “Bloody incredible.”

Those incredible eyes darted to him again. “You think so?”

“Yeah.”

“Not what people normally say.” There was self-deprecating humor in the man’s tone. John half-smiled. “What do they normally say?”

“Piss off.”

A startled laugh broke from him, and then choked off as he jumped at the sound. The other man glanced at him again, this time speculatively. “So who does he have?”

John felt his stomach tighten painfully again. “Oh...well, it’s not--he doesn’t have them hostage, or anything. It’s...my sister. She’s in rehab. He put here there. For. Me.”

There was a flicker of pity in those beautiful glasz eyes. “I am sorry.”

John shrugged, trying to regain his equilibrium. “Anything for family. The thing is, sir, if he--”

“Sherlock.”

“Beg pardon?”

“My name. It’s certainly not ‘sir.’ Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh.” John was at a loss. This was possibly the closest to a friendly, civil conversation he’d had in almost a year. “M-Mr. Holmes. If Jim comes up here and I’ve just been--well--”

Sherlock Holmes turned to regard him steadily. “Speaking with me, and sparking my interest, would not constitute as being entertainment?” he asked dryly. “He needs to see that I’m the sort to ravish whatever poor sod he sends in to me?”

John swallowed, blushing again. “It’s just...it’s his way. I’m sorry, I can go--”

“No need.” Sherlock turned toward him again. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he added, and John froze, staring at him. It had been so long since he had actually wanted to stay when told to.

There were footsteps outside, and he jolted, instinctively panicked at the thought of Jim interrupting this. Sherlock seemed to read this in his face. He closed the last few steps between them, reaching John and wrapping one hand firmly around the back of his neck. As the door opened to admit Jim and Seb, John found himself being swung around and pushed up against one of the armchairs, and Sherlock Holmes pressed his mouth against his.


	4. We Jumped, Never Asking Why

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deals are sealed on both sides.
> 
> Chapter title from "Wrecking Ball" by Miley Cyrus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm being a jerk and intentionally cutting this scene in half. I kind of want their first time together to be its own chapter. Cause I'm sentimental that way.

One thing was for certain, John thought dizzily, there was no chance that Jim would doubt the legitimacy of the kiss he had walked in on. The rush of arousal that flooded through John from the instant Sherlock had grabbed his neck had been enough to leave him rock hard and aching, and when he felt the man’s body press up against his, that gorgeous mouth hot and seeking as he plundered John’s mouth, he whimpered at the impressive heat of his erection against John’s hip.

Sherlock had an arm wrapped around John’s waist, supporting him, and the other still gripped the back of his neck, keeping him pinned in the embrace. Not that he minded. After the initial shock had passed, he let his lips part, and desire seared through his veins as Sherlock pressed the advantage, his tongue sliding sensuously into John’s mouth, tracing the inside of his lips in an exploratory manner. John’s hands went to his hips, uncertain whether to steady himself or pull closer, but before he could, they were interrupted by Jim’s saucy laugh.

“Well, now, Johnny boy, I knew you were the best I have, but this is a nice surprise! I’ve never gotten Mr. Holmes to look twice at my toys. And I’ve never seen such enthusiasm from you, my, my.”

Sherlock broke the kiss, keeping his hold on John’s body. He turned his head enough to glance back at Jim, his mouth twisting into a sardonic smirk. “You’ve never had one quite so interesting, before.” When he glanced back at John, the heat in his eyes dispelled the slight worry that his cool tone had sparked in John that he really was just another one of Jim’s pawns; no, it seemed that Sherlock Holmes merely knew how to play men as ruthless and brutal as Jim. The tension and blatant want suddenly sizzling between his and John’s bodies was undeniably real.

John shuddered from head to foot at the stark realization that he had to hide his interest in Sherlock at all costs. Jim knew he was far from broken, that he only obeyed him for Harry’s sake. If he thought John wanted to be used by one of his clients, he would never give him over. And John couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Sherlock go. As bizarre as that feeling was.

Sherlock clearly read all of this in his face within a second. He released him, and John stepped away, head bowed. When Jim crooked a finger, he threw him a dark look, then dropped his gaze guiltily and shuffled forward, letting Jim close a painfully tight hand over his arm. “Well, I’m glad you agree. I certainly find Johnny...captivating. And he’s brought me some wonderful business.” He glanced over his shoulder at Seb, who remained silent by the door, his eyes dark. “Seb, darling, that contract, please.”

The ex-soldier held out a sheet of paper, and Jim took it, extending it to Sherlock. John watched those beautiful hands accept the document, savoring how his incredible eyes drifted down the page, reading whatever grim business deal Jim was trying to lure him in on. Part of John was grieved that this was how he had found Sherlock; he did not want him to be one of Jim’s partners, immersed in a world of darkness and violence. But he thought he could forgive it, if it meant he could have one person in his life who did not leave him debased, abused, and wanting to die. Someone who treated him well.

Jim still had his maddening little victory smirk plastered on his face. “Well, I can wait a day, if you’d like to think on it. I promise, darling, there are countless perks to ‘teaming up’ with me.” He half turned, nudging John ahead of him, toward the door. “In the meantime, I suppose, I’ll just be--”

“I’ll do it.” Sherlock’s tone was clipped and borderline hostile, but his expression was cool and determined. Returning to the sofa, he sank down gracefully, drawing a pen from his inside jacket pocket, and signing his name on the bottom of the document. Even across the room, John could see that he had delicate, flourishing penmanship. It suited him.

When Jim received the signed contract, his face broke into a wide grin. “Delightful to have you on board, Mr. Holmes...or may I call you Sherlock? Now that we’re...” His voice was positively dripping with honey and false warmth. “...partners.”

Sherlock’s lips thinned. “Call me whatever you like, Moriarty. I’ll expect a first business report before the weekend.”

For a moment John was confused as to who he was addressing, and then he realized with a start that he had never once, in eight months, learned Jim’s last name. He had never even seen the mail that arrived at the flat. Moriarty. The name was as deceptively attractive and somehow ominous as the man it belonged to.

Jim’s smile had hardened slightly; clearly he didn’t like how detached Sherlock seemed about their deal. “Very well. I’ll see that it’s done. In the meantime, perhaps you want to just enjoy the rest of the evening? As a partner, you have essentially unlimited access to all the little joys of my realm.” His raised the hand that had been gripping John’s arm, tracing a finger with false tenderness over his cheek. He flinched, though he tried to suppress the reaction. “Can I tempt you? Perhaps a bit of company, a night in one of the suites upstairs.”

Sherlock was gazing at him intently, as though trying to read the psychopath’s motives in his face. John didn’t believe that was humanly possible, but then, Sherlock clearly had a gift. He held his breath.

“I could be so inclined,” was Sherlock’s cool reply. “If you don’t mind terribly parting with him--I recognize that he’s your favorite--I’d rather like a go at your boy Johnny here.” Jim’s derogatory nickname sounded vile and wrong in Sherlock’s musical voice, but John did not react. He understood the dangerous game being played here. “I really can see why you like him so.”

Jim chuckled, and the sound was grating and cruel to John’s ears. “Yes, I’d hoped you would. He is quite a fun little pet. Just be sure to be firm with him; if he doesn’t like it, he gets very snippy. Mind you don’t let him bite.” He gave what John supposed was meant to be a playful cuff to the back of his head, and he stumbled away from the Irishman. “And do be sure to return him in good condition. He’ll have more work to do for me tomorrow.” His black eyes glinted maliciously. “Try not to wear him out too thoroughly.”

Sherlock’s lip curled derisively. “You can rest assured on that front.” As Jim moved to hand him a key that had materialized in Seb’s hand, Sherlock raised his own in refusal. “I don’t care to kip in rooms that others have used for such tawdry purposes. I’ll take him with me.” He nodded at the contract. “Do call me tomorrow. If I’ve any notes for you, I’ll send them back with him.” He inclined his head toward John, as though he were just an asset, not important. John was trembling, desperate to be able to touch him, to feel those gentle hands on him again.

Jim nodded cheerfully, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Of course, darling. I’ll send a car for you tomorrow evening, you can bring him back then.” Turning smartly on his heel, he headed for the door. Seb fell in behind him, but not before he gave John a long, solemn look. John wasn’t sure, but he felt like the soldier was trying to warn him of something. He swallowed, trying to push aside the anxiety. He was free of Jim for a whole night--and not for just any client, but one whom he might actually (dare he think it?) like.

When the door closed, Sherlock’s shoulders lost some of their stiffness, and he rubbed a hand over his jaw thoughtfully. “That man is one hell of a psychopath. A sadist, too, I imagine?”

John raised his eyes, breathing shallowly. He looked at Sherlock, and the taller man seemed to understand perfectly the fear in his mind. “Nothing you say to me will reach him, you have my word, John. I signed that contract so that he wouldn’t take you away. I can’t say I like his business set-up, but I don’t think I want to walk away and leave you to him quite so quickly.”

John’s breath caught in his throat. “You--you mean, you signed--you did that--for me?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. “Are you really so surprised? I’m rather certain you were kissing me back. Not to mention another symptom of reciprocated interest that I noticed--”

“Yes, okay, fine,” John said hastily, making a face. It had been so long since he’d felt desire for someone, longer still since he had been in a position to act on it. He did not know quite how to process what was about to happen. “I just...I didn’t imagine...I’m hardly worth getting into an unsavory business contract over.”

Sherlock licked his lips, looking thoughtful. “Do you know what your...employer’s...business is, John?” When he shook his head, the other man nodded speculatively. “I suppose you wouldn’t. If he uses you to seduce us into signing, he hardly needs tell you what we’re getting ourselves into.” He paused, a troubled look crossing his face. “Well, I should tell you now, then, that what he does certainly is unsavory, not always ethical, and almost certainly never legal. He is as ruthless and sadistic in business as you know him to be in his personal life. And while tonight is clearly the first time you’ve ever heard of me, I have been on his radar, shall we say, for some time. I have skills and connections that would benefit his professional pursuits, and now that I’ve signed a partnership with him, there is likely to be some unpleasant events that will be as much on my head as on his. Can you tolerate knowing that? If not, I will respect your decision, and simply provide you with respite from his attentions for the evening. There is a second bedroom in my flat, you’re welcome to it anytime, under the guise of the role he expects you to play for me.”

John let out a long breath, torn. He wanted this man, he could hardly pretend otherwise, but his honesty was not something John could ignore. He wasn’t talking to some good-natured civil servant he’d met out on the street. Sherlock was tangled up with Jim, and whatever assets he brought to the table, Jim clearly considered an alliance with him a powerful victory. That meant he was absolutely dangerous.

But at the same time, there was an edge of consideration in everything he said, and simply the fact that he was allowing John the opportunity to use him as an escape, rather than just to be used himself--as Jim expected--told John plenty about him. Whatever had led Sherlock into the underworld Jim ruled, it did not define him as a man.

He took a hesitant step closer to Sherlock. “I...you’re aren’t like him, are you. Not at all.”

Those stunning eyes lightened almost imperceptibly, like glass in changing light. “Not where personal matters are concerned. I refused to lose my humanity in pursuit of success.” His head tilted slightly. “That is not to say that an intimate association with me is not particularly hazardous to your health...I’d say it really rather is. But aside from being overconfident, arrogant, and consistently reckless, I am also fairly selfish, and I have no qualms about telling you that I want you, rather intensely. If you’ll allow me, I intend to finish what I started before we were so rudely interrupted.”

The distinctly refined way he described both his self-perceived flaws, and his apparent lust, had the unexpected result of being entirely more arousing than John could quite handle. He inhaled shakily, nodding a little too eagerly. He didn’t quite trust his voice not to break if he spoke his consent.

Sherlock’s lips curved into a delicate, faintly predatory smile. “After you.”

John turned to leave, sensing Sherlock follow closely behind him. He felt a long-fingered hand rest very gently on his lower back as they descended the stairs, and slowly weaved through the crowded club. Around them, men laughed and talked and drank, occasionally with Jim’s pets hanging on their arms, but John felt safe for the first time since he’d been brought here. When anyone cast an appreciative eye over him, noting the leather band around his wrist that identified him as Jim’s, Sherlock would shift closer, using his proximity and his warning gaze to stake his claim, without getting too publically possessive. It certainly worked; no one tried to come between them, and when they reached the door, they were permitted out without comment.

As Sherlock hailed a cab, John drew in a long breath, feeling almost free for the first time since the night he had stumbled into Jim’s hands. He glanced sidelong at Sherlock, hardly daring to believe he might actually have caught the attention of such a beautiful man. 

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice his gaze, or he didn’t comment. As a cab pulled up, he held the door for John, then slid in after him. He gave the address, then sat back, gazing out the window with a quietly content look on his face.

When they stopped in front of a small cafe on Baker Street, beside a door marked 221, John’s heartbeat accelerated. Slowly he slid out of the cab and stood waiting as Sherlock paid. Then he found himself caught in that piercing gaze again, his cheeks flushing as he imagined what lay in store.

Sherlock smiled faintly, unlocking the door and extending his hand, gesturing for John to enter. “Shall we?” he asked, the barest hint of teasing in his voice. Taking a deep breath, John stepped inside Sherlock’s home.


	5. We Clawed, We Chained, Our Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One night can change an entire life.
> 
> Chapter title from "Wrecking Ball" by Miley Cyrus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me a surprisingly long time to get right, considering how often I write Johnlock porn. I guess it is tougher writing AU. They're themselves, but...not.

The tension rose with every step John took as he climbed the staircase after the other man, until they reached the door at the top marked B. Sherlock unlocked the door and let John enter first.

At first glance, the flat was small, cozy, and very messy. The furniture was oriented toward black leather, with books, newspapers, and science equipment scattered across the various surfaces. A desk stood by the window, the laptop sitting on it barely visible beneath stacks of folders and more newspapers. On the end table between two armchairs in front of the fireplace, a mug half-full of tea was abandoned beside an empty plate. On the armchair itself, a violin and its bow were propped up on the seat, and a music stand stood by the window.

John found himself smiling, the expression feeling unfamiliar and stiff after months of trying to keep a neutral demeanor. “I wouldn’t have pegged you in a place like this.”

Sherlock’s soft laughter startled him, as it was directly behind him; he could feel the man’s warm breath on the back of his neck. “Really? Where did you imagine I might live?”

John’s spine straightened, his head tilting to one side in an unconscious invitation for more of that tantalizing brush of nearness. “I...uh..” His thoughts were muddled by awareness of the man standing less than half a foot behind him. “I pictured...something more sterile...I think. White and grey, professional.”

Again that soft laughter ghosted over his skin. “No...no, I’m more a man of warmer tastes.” John gasped as he felt cool fingertips trace as lightly as was physically possible up the side of his bare arm. “I prefer heat.”

Firm lips settled on the curve of John’s neck, and he whimpered out loud before pressing his mouth tightly closed. A slight nip, and a hint of suction on the meat of his shoulder made his hips buck, and Sherlock’s voice was just a whisper over his skin. “Don’t silence yourself. I want to hear you.”

God, his voice...his voice was as seductive as his touch. John leaned back, desperate for more, and was rewarded by a breathless chuckle that raised goosebumps along his arms. Hands slid around his waist, and his gaze dropped to watch those beautiful fingers come up to slowly begin releasing the buttons of his shirt. He was blissfully paralyzed by the agile way they moved down his torso, until his shirt hung open, revealing the t-shirt stretched snugly over the muscles he had built up over the past several months.

Sherlock’s hands flattened against his stomach, the thin cotton the only remaining barrier between them. John whimpered again as he found himself caught between those slowly stroking hands, and the firm wall of Sherlock’s body pressed up against his back. From his shoulders to his thighs, John could feel him; the deceptively thin body that was all hard-packed muscles, and hard...oh. 

A primal sound of want slipped from his lips as he felt the solid curve of Sherlock’s cock rub sensuously against his arse. His hips flexed needfully, grinding back against the delicious heat. Sherlock grunted, and his searching fingers latched onto John’s nipples and pinched hard through the shirt. John cried out softly, his body spasming as it tried to arch into both sensations. His arms rose up and back, wrapping around Sherlock’s neck, his fingers twisting into the thick mop of dark hair.

Still teasing his nipples, Sherlock’s lips found his ear, and he licked the shell before he whispered directly into it. “What do you want me to do to you, John?” As he felt the man in his arms shudder, he dropped his hands to John’s hips, hauling him back against his arousal. He rolled his hips slightly, savoring the sound that tore from John at the sensation.

John struggled to find his voice, choking at how close Sherlock’s grasping fingers were to his own aching prick. “I...I want....oh, God, Sherlock...!”

One hand slid up to rest gently at John’s throat, nudging his head back to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder. He shivered as Sherlock’s mouth caressed a slow line up his neck, tongueing the lobe of his ear and biting down on it gently. “Tell me, John.”

His voice was hoarse with arousal such as he had never felt for another person in his life. “I...I’m not used...to having...a say...Sherlock, please....”

The hands fondling him went still, and Sherlock’s lips left his skin. There was an edge in his voice. “He never lets you say no, or voice a preference?”

John swallowed hard, needing the contact of his mouth back. “I’m not his partner. I’m his...property.”

Sherlock’s grip tightened enough to make him yelp, and suddenly he was spun around to face the other man. Those amazing hands, heated from touching him, came up to cup his face securely between palms that were firm and calloused. John went still under the scrutiny of those shimmering eyes, darting across every line of his face to absorb all the information he could ever want about him.

“If I could rescue you from this life, I would do so, immediately. Tonight. But with Jim Moriarty, every move is part of a dangerous game. I must act carefully. But I promise you, I will find a way. Will you trust me?”

John was stunned by the intensity of the moment; the look on Sherlock’s angelic face, and the words he was saying. It was a sweeter image of freedom than anything he’d dared to fantasize about in all those months. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes, read the raw sincerity there, and felt the shield of ice he’d constructed around his heart begin to fracture.

“I’ll trust you,” he whispered.

There was a surge of relief and excitement in Sherlock’s depthless glasz eyes, and still gripping John’s face, he pressed their mouths together in the most passionate kiss John had ever received, even including their first kiss earlier that evening. 

There was suddenly a new urgency to the contact between them. Sherlock’s weight pushed against him, and he stumbled back obediently until he struck the coffee table. Sherlock steadied him, then seized the lapels of his shirt and dragged it off his shoulders and down his arms, discarding it on the floor behind them. His palms flattened against John’s chest, pressing him down onto the table. John sank willingly onto his back, his legs hanging over the end. 

Sherlock’s knee pressed between his thighs, and John groaned animalistically, grinding against his thigh. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of Sherlock’s fine silk shirt, tugging them open until he had exposed a strip of pale flesh stretched over lean muscles. Murmuring admiration for the body above him, he curled upward, his lips sliding wetly over Sherlock’s chest as he pushed the shirt slowly off his shoulders. Sherlock let him, shivering as John’s tongue teased over his peaked nipples, stroking his hands through John’s hair. His shirt followed John’s to the floor.

John arched back with a gasp as Sherlock’s fingers slid under the hem of his t-shirt, slowly pushing the cotton up his abdomen. He raised his arms, moaning incoherently as a warm mouth followed those talented fingers over his bare chest.

Sherlock paused suddenly, and John glanced down and flushed unhappily as he realized that the other man’s attention was fixed on the scars that criss-crossed his torso, ranging from months to just a week old. Probing fingers explored the remnants of punishments dealt by Seb’s hands, and wounds inflicted because of Jim’s blood kink. Some of the freshest cuts, still pink and raw and ugly, formed the letters “JM” on his chest, over his heart.

Sherlock traced a fingertip over the letters, a faint frown on his face. Abruptly he drew John close, and for a moment the smaller man thought he was embracing him. Then he felt those dexterous fingers tracing over his back, and he realized he was studying the rest of the scars and cuts scattered over his upper body.

John drew back, meeting those incandescent eyes solemnly. “It’s his nature.” He took one of Sherlock’s hands, raising it to his face and pressing his cheek against the cool flesh of his palm. “Please, just...keep touching me.”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened at the request, and he dipped forward, pressing a kiss against the flesh of John’s throat. His hands slipped between their bodies, opening John’s jeans and shifting him until he could slide the denim down, and off of his body. John shivered as the air brushed his bare skin, but he warmed quickly under Sherlock’s touch. He stared down his own body hungrily as Sherlock trailed his mouth up the inside of his thigh, passing by his throbbing erection even as he arched upward, seeking friction, and dropping teasing kisses up over his scarred stomach and chest, until at last he reclaimed John’s lips.

“John,” he murmured, and his voice was tender enough to break the heart. “John, I need to have you. Please.”

Stunned at actually being asked for his consent, out loud, John met his gaze with a surge of longing. “Of course, Sherlock. Yes.”

Abruptly Sherlock stood, and with a strength John would not have believed he possessed he lifted John up off the table--with a startled gasp, John’s legs wrapped around his waist and he flung his arms around the other man’s neck--and actually carried him through the kitchen and down a short hallway, until they entered a bedroom.

John did not take much time to look around--distantly he noted that it was tidier here, as though Sherlock weren’t in this room as often as the other--before he was laid out on the bed with shocking tenderness. Sherlock stretched out over him, staring down at him with a kind of intense, raw wanting that John had never had directed at him before. It was both amazing and terrifying.

And then he was being kissed again, over his lips and face and throat and chest, and he carded his hands through Sherlock’s hair, savoring every point of contact between their bodies. Sherlock’s kisses and gentle bites elicited soft moans and whimpers from him, but he no longer felt shy, because he could tell that Sherlock truly was loving the sounds he coaxed from him.

When Sherlock’s hand slid between them to wrap around his arousal, John arched off the bed with a gasp, thrusting helplessly into those amazing fingers. “Ngh--oh, God...please...Sher--Sherlock!”

The fingers slid lower, teasing his body, playing him like her was a musical instrument. A single finger circled over his hole, and John trembled violently. “Please...” he whispered brokenly. “Please, Sherlock, I want you to touch me...”

Soft kisses pressed over his cheeks and eyelids. “Are you certain, John? I know you’ve suffered terrible things at his hands. You don’t have to give anything to me.”

John opened his eyes, looking into Sherlock’s blazing eyes--so blue right this moment, a piercing ocean of desire--and he smiled, truly smiled, before he leaned up and kissed him, their lips moving slowly over one another’s, as though they had all the time in the world. “I know,” he whispered against Sherlock’s mouth. “I want this. Just once, to feel like I matter.”

The arms wrapped around him tightened. “Of course you matter.” Sherlock reached across him, and John heard the telltale click of a bottle of lube being opened. A moment later, slick fingers traced along the curve of his ass, and he parted his legs willingly, letting Sherlock slowly, gently, nudge his way inside John’s body.

A primitive moan escaped him as one long finger breached him, slipping in and out with shocking gentleness, slowly opening him without trying to force it. When a second finger penetrated, John heard a sound of true, shocking lust slip from his lips, and he found himself arching his hips, trying to push down onto Sherlock’s fingers. When a third joined, he cried out, a low drawn-out moan of, “Sherlock!”

The man’s voice was low and breathless and perfect in his ear. “Now, John?”

“God, yes,” he answered, laying back and spreading his legs. Sherlock easily slid over him, lifting his thighs and positioning himself. When he pushed carefully into John’s body, every bit of fear and grief and painful memory bled from John’s body, and he let his head fall back, his hands roaming hungrily over the man who was inside him. Their eyes met, and the intimacy of the moment overwhelmed John. He slid one hand between their sweat-slicked bodies, grasping his own erection.

It did not take much, with Sherlock staring into his eyes, murmuring soft praises as he thrust into him, arms braced sexily on either side of John’s face. Very quickly he was panting Sherlock’s name, gasping and whimpering, jerking himself toward the edge. “Sher--Sherlock, I’m...gonna...gonna....”

A breathtaking smile lit his lover’s face, and John’s heart melted. “Yes, John. Please cum for me, cum with me inside you.” His head dropped down so he could rain kisses along John’s throat and jaw, and with a strangled cry of pleasure that had Sherlock’s name tangled into the sounds there somewhere, John came, leaving his hand and both their bellies slick with his release.

The tightening of his inner muscles was over-stimulating for Sherlock as well, and with a few more deep thrusts, accurately striking John’s prostate and extending his orgasm, Sherlock buried himself to the hilt inside John, gripping him tightly as he came.

For a few moments they lay silently, wrapped in each other’s arms, and John never wanted to leave. But at least, Sherlock’s weight became a little too much for his sensitized body. “Mmf. Need air.”

Sherlock snorted into his neck, but rolled gently to the side, disengaging their bodies. His hand stayed stretched across John’s chest, stroking absently. John turned his face to the side, and their eyes met.

“I’ve never felt this way before,” Sherlock said quietly, and John’s chest tightened. “I was honest when I told you that I am arrogant and selfish, and I do not allow myself sentiment toward others. I consider it pointless.” His hand drifted up, cupping John’s chin and gently tracing the worry lines of his face. “But you...you are something so unexpected and different in my world. Something that has preserved its innocence, even as it is wrapped up in the worst living hell imaginable.” 

John smiled weakly. “It’s simple....I just have something to fight for. Or to hold onto, I suppose...I don’t risk fighting him anymore.”

The fingers on his face flexed, and Sherlock shifted closer so that their foreheads rested together. “Well, how about a business arrangement of our own, John Watson. You keep holding on, and I will be the one with something to fight for.”

John had the instantaneous, overwhelming realization that if nothing deterred them, he would fall head over heels in love with this man. And if Sherlock was pledging to save him out of human decency, rather than reciprocated feelings, then he was bound for hurt when he was free of Jim, and thus no longer Sherlock’s concern.

And then he thought about the sort of man Jim was, and the likelihood that Sherlock could extricate Harry and himself from the Irishman’s control. They had some time ahead of them still.

And if he found himself left with unrequited love and memories of nights like this one...well, he would make do.

He looked into Sherlock’s guarded, earnest face, and he smiled, tight-lipped. “Deal.”

The kiss was sweet and quick, like long-time lovers who had had a thousand days together and looked forward to thousands more. As the ice around John’s heart broke apart, he felt a small sliver of it wedge into the heart itself, wounding him with the intensity of his feelings at that moment.

Sherlock was shuffling around, finding the edge of a blanket and dragging it up over them. John stared at him in confusion. “You...aren’t kicking me out?”

Those mesmerizing eyes were the cool grey of steele as he looked down at John with something like scolding in his look. “No, John, of course I’m not. I have just promised to save you, haven’t I? I think I’ll start by reminding you what it feels like to be held as you sleep.”

John snorted as Sherlock nudged him onto his back and began using a t-shirt to wipe his body clean of their mixed fluids. “There’s nothing in my experience to remind me with.”

Sherlock paused, gazing down at him intently. “No one’s ever held you?”

When John shook his head, swallowing, Sherlock heaved a sigh and discarded the shirt, wrapping his arms around John and drawing him back against him, pressed together from chest to hips. “When you are here at Baker Street, you won’t ever have to sleep alone.” His breath tickled John’s ear as he murmured the words into his hair. John shivered pleasantly, and hesitantly he slid his hand over Sherlock’s. He watched in awe and pleasure as those long, pale fingers interlocked with his, resting against his chest. 

When he felt Sherlock’s breathing settle into a steady rhythm, his chest rising and falling consistently and comfortingly against John’s back, he let himself smile.

He had never been more at peace than he was at this moment.

Of course, there’s always a calm before the hurricane.


	6. We Won't Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's life is becoming a dance between two men. It will be a dangerous tango.
> 
> Also, there is musical inspiration for the title. This is the song that I was playing on repeat as I imagined Sherlock playing his violin: 
> 
> (El Choclo Tango, violin solo.)
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wWaN6M4BBkE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay in posting, dear friends! I'm moving back to school this week. It will make things hectic, but I promise I won't stop!
> 
> Chapter title from "We Can't Stop" by Miley Cyrus.

It had been over five years since John had last gone to sleep neither starving nor in pain. 

It had been over eight months since he made it through a night without nightmares or insomnia.

And it had been just over an hour that he had lain quietly in the hazy pre-dawn glow, gazing in awe at the long pale arm wrapped sleepily around his body. Their fingers were still intertwined, and he could feel Sherlock’s deep breaths gusting softly against the back of his neck. He was fast asleep, seeming completely at ease having a second body in his bed, pressed up against him.

John wished this feeling would never go away.

The sun was up, and golden puddles were dripping through the curtains onto the dark wood floorboards, when John heard Sherlock mumble and shift behind him. He stayed still, instinctively alarmed for a moment, then found himself smiling as he heard a soft mumble of, “Mf, morning, John.”

He rolled over lazily, not hiding his grin as he met the other man’s drowsy gaze. “Hey.”

Sherlock peered at him, then grunted and rubbed his eyes. “You look far too awake. How long have you just been lying there?”

John gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Can’t complain. I don’t remember the last time I woke up next to someone. And with such good memories, too.”

The dark-haired man shot him a look that held hints of the fire from last night. “Careful, John, you’ll get me going again if you reminisce.”

John pretended to consider. “And that’s a bad thing?”

With a half-laugh, Sherlock flung an arm around around his waist and dragged him over, so that he was draped across the lanky man’s chest. “Your enthusiasm is entirely too infectious. We’re going to be in trouble at this rate.”

John found he quite agreed, given what he could feel going on between the other man’s legs. He ground his hips down a bit, smirking at the groan he elicited. “Well, I always was good at getting myself in trouble.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock caught his face between those beautiful pale hands, and kissed him soundly. “Trouble isn’t always good, John. You work for the living incarnation of a very bad sort of trouble.”

John went still, Jim’s face flashing unwelcome in his mind. Then he frowned slightly. “So do you, now, technically.”

Sherlock snorted. “Work with, not for. That spider couldn’t get me under his control. He’ll find himself unpleasantly evenly matched.”

John chewed his bottom lip, then decided to be saucy. “Not in bed, that’s for sure.”

Sherlock looked at him surprise, then laughed, a deep sincere sound that vibrated through John’s body. “Oh, you impossible thing,” the taller man muttered, rolling him over and kissing him deeply. John responded enthusiastically, then threw his head back with a startled gasp as his legs were pushed apart, and unexpectedly slick fingers--when the hell did he grab the lube?--were pressing into him, working him open. He stared down into those swirling blue-grey eyes.

Sherlock was practically simmering with sensual energy. “Trouble be damned, I’m taking you now.”

“Oh, God, yes...” The words slipped from John like a moan, but he didn’t care how he sounded. Between Sherlock’s thoroughness last night, and his own eagerness, it didn’t take much to prepare him again. Within a moment, Sherlock was very gently easing inside him, and John arched his hips to meet him readily.

This time was everything John hadn’t dared let him long for. Fast with need, yet lazy with the peace of lovers who have all of time to experience each other. Sherlock’s hands worshipped his body as he held him down and thrust languidly into him, and John let himself be explored, opened, possessed. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted someone like Sherlock, how much he’d needed to be desired. Now, he knew he would never get enough.

Their orgasms seemed somehow secondary to the simple joy of touching and claiming one another, and John let himself ride the waves of pleasure as though it were a daily occurrence to wake in Sherlock’s arms and surrender his body to the man’s hunger.

Afterwards, Sherlock cleaned them both up as gently as he had the night before, and cradled John to his chest. There were no words for what he felt. John simply held on, and tried to memorize every sensation, to hold onto when he was back in his own life, back in Jim’s world.

The clock showed that it was around 11am when they finally got up, just bothering with trousers before they wandered into the kitchen. John reflexively started brewing tea, and couldn’t help but grin as Sherlock moved effortlessly around him, as though he already belonged in this flat, in its brilliant owner’s world. Together they put together a light breakfast, sitting down to share it. 

Sherlock sipped a cup of coffee idly as he watched John work through toast and tea. “Tell me about your sister, John.”

John paused, sighed, and took another sip. “Not much to it, really. Our parents are dead. I was at boot camp--” At Sherlock’s amused noise, he paused and smirked. “Yes, I joined the military. Thought it would suit me. Strong morals, strong body, it seemed a good use for me.” He leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Got the telegram that they’re been in a wreck, weren’t gonna make it. When I came back, they were gone. Harry was alone in the hospital. She’d been homeless, and too afraid to tell any of us. But I saw it straight off. Daft fool. Couldn’t kick the drinking. Without them, it was ten times worse. She was drunk when I saw her there, and it’d been what, four years...” He trailed off, staring into space.

Sherlock voice was gentle. “So you dropped out of the military to care for her.”

John huffed irritably. “Tried to. I was shit for her. Couldn’t find a job, couldn’t get good housing, couldn’t keep her from drinking. Worked a deal to land us a bedsit, worked for maybe...six months. She hadn’t stopped drinking for more than 6 hours at a time. I was losing us both. Stealing just to stay alive. And then Jim found me.”

His eyes dropped to his unfinished tea, his gaze distant. “I would never have considered such an offer. Not if it was just me in such bad shape. But Harry was dying in front of me. She was drinking herself to death, and I couldn’t stop her or fix the damage already done. Way we were going, I’d come home and find her dead with a bottle in hand, and then I’d wander the streets until I lost my mind and died in an alley. Or if I was lucky, get back into the military, and die in a trench somewhere. Jim...was a level higher of hell. Seemed like the lesser of two evils.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “And that’s not the case.”

John snorted in disgust. “Between him and a slow torturous death, I’d take death.”

Sherlock hand snapped out, catching John’s chin in a firm grasp. His eyes blazed, holding John’s gaze captive. “Do not ever say that again, John. I will not let you slip away from me.”

John’s gut twisted again, and he knew he was slipping down a slope that he’d never climb back up. Sherlock didn’t even seem to realize how his promises were affecting John. He swallowed tensely. “I said I’d hold on.”

Sapphire eyes glowed brilliantly back at him. “And I said I’d fight. Don’t forget it.”

Sherlock stood swiftly, and John sat breathlessly as the table was cleared. Behind him, Sherlock began cleaning the dishes as he spoke again. “You said you wouldn’t have made the deal if it was just you. Even if the story were the same? Starving and desperate?”

Rubbing his neck, John stretched wearily. “Well...I’d likely have never gotten so low on my own. But no, I don’t see why I would. I did it for Harry. She’s all the family I have left.”

“Rather one-sided devotion, don’t you think?”

John frowned, staring at the wood grain of the table. “I’ll always put the people I love first, Sherlock. Family first.”

A gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder. “You are a unique man, John Watson.”

Trying to swallow the lump in his throat, John tipped his face back, and was rewarded by a firm kiss pressed to his mouth.

When they parted, he asked curiously, “Well, you know my sob story. What’s your mystery?”

Sherlock paused, looking over at him with unreadable eyes, the stormy grey color they’d been when he stood in Jim’s lounge. He was silent and still for a long moment, and John dropped his eyes first, realizing that this was an area he was not yet cleared for access. He nodded, still looking down, and felt Sherlock relax tangibly. He knew he shouldn’t ask again for a while.

Time drifted by peacefully. John sat down to read the paper, ignoring Sherlock’s broad smirk as he winced and shifted in his seat. “Sore, John?”

He stuck his tongue out obstinately. “I blame you.”

Long finger curled sensuously through his hair, making him shiver and tilt his head back to receive the passionate kiss that Sherlock pressed onto his mouth. His voice was a soft murmur. “I gladly take credit.”

John feigned interest in the news, but mostly he just watched as Sherlock took up his violin and played, a beautiful haunting melody that felt as though it retold the entirety of their night through musical notes. His breath caught as he glimpsed the man’s face as he played, his rapture and love for the music clearly displayed in his closed eyes and half smile.

Early in the afternoon, Sherlock lowered the violin and sighed. “John.” Coming over to the armchair, he crouched and leaned forward, drawing John forward so that their foreheads touched. “My financial advisor is coming soon to discuss the likely outcomes of my...association with Moriarty. Unfortunately, I cannot trust that he would not report anything he observes between us, should Moriarty seek to find out.”

John understood at once. “You need me out of sight while he’s here.”

Sherlock’s eyes tightened. “At the very least, I want to warn you of this, so that you understand my behavior. If he sees you, I must behave as though I have no personal feelings toward you, as though you’re just a toy Moriarty has lent me. Please, forgive me.”

John smiled and pressed a kiss to the other man’s hair. “I’ll wait in the bedroom.”

When the doorbell rang, he slipped down the hall, but he sat on the floor by the door, where he could hear.

Someone entered the living room with shuffling steps, and he heard Sherlock’s voice, the same clipped tone he’d used with Jim. “Wilkes.”

An irritating and falsely cheerful voice responded. “Mr. Holmes, pleasure as always. Shall we?”

John listened hard as the two went back and force, discussing business ventures Jim might use Sherlock’s connections for, but John was unfamiliar with any and all names of companies, people, or places. He had never wanted to understand Jim’s world, and he didn’t suppose he wanted to comprehend Sherlock’s part in it. But it still annoyed him not to get what was being said. It was still English, after all.

As the clock ticked toward evening, he finally heard Wilkes move to leave. There was a short pause, and then Sherlock’s voice, sounding exhausted. “You can come back, John.”

He slipped out to the living room, where he found Sherlock looking tired and irritable. Wordlessly he went to wrap his arms around his waist, pressing his face into Sherlock’s chest.

The taller man seemed surprised for a moment, and then he relaxed, returning the embrace. John felt his cheek rest on top of his own head. “Thank you,” Sherlock murmured. John just smiled.

As the sky outside darkened, Sherlock dressed for another business meeting. John reassembled last night’s wardrobe, heart heavy at the thought of being back in Jim’s possession. There’s nothing for it, though; unless Jim ordered it, he wouldn’t come back here tonight. It was too risky to request it.

He watched Sherlock pull on his jacket, and his coat over it, and he took a deep breath. Glasz eyes met his own in the mirror over the mantle, waiting for him to speak.

“I know you’re a part of his world, and you were before I met you. I know that you’re dangerous, likely as bad as he is, and you could probably do a world of harm if you wanted to.” He paused, watching Sherlock’s expressionless face. He almost smiled. “I also know that whether you’d admit it or not you have a heart, and a conscience, and whatever your reason is for working this way, I know I’d probably almost understand it. And I know I trust you when you make me promises. And that’s something I’m not used to anymore, being able to trust.” He stepped closer, straightening Sherlock’s collar and handing him his scarf and black leather gloves. “You may think I’m a fool for it, but...I think...I believe in you, Sherlock.”

The hint of a smile, a truly kind smile, tugged up those beautiful lips. “Oh, John.” Lifting one of the smaller man’s hands, he pressed a kiss to the back of it. “I consider your faith misplaced...but I do appreciate it.” Stepping away, he seemed to steel himself, then looked at John with a cool glint in his gaze. “John, I am sorry. When we are there, I have to act as though I do not care about your feelings, I know nothing beyond your name, and you are just a body to provide service and pleasure. But do not forget a single word I have said to you, or a moment we have spent together. I have meant it all.”

John let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I know. I...I won’t let myself doubt you.” He paused. “Are you a good actor?”

A cold smile was the chilling reply. “Incredible.”

As they swept down the stairs and out the door to where an unpleasantly familiar black car awaited them, John’s gut twisted miserably again. Much as he knew it had to be this way, and he truly did believe Sherlock’s word, he did not know how he would cope when face-to-face with it. 

But he knew he also had to be convincing about being indifferent to Sherlock. If Jim saw genuine feelings between them, then he would lose everything. And that was a far greater price.


	7. Misery, Why Won't You Answer Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cold dose of Jim. And does Seb possibly have a heart?
> 
> Chapter title from "Misery" by Maroon 5.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I'm sorry. I have detailed notes for each chapter, and I just followed those...didn't take much.
> 
> Nextly, I received valuable critique about Sherlock being a little out of character with his apparent instant attachment to John. I have a few reasons: 1) I am a hopeless sentimental idiot, so unfortunately he mirrors that a little. 2) My favorite view of Sherlock is sort of the mid series 2, post Hounds/pre Fall Sherlock, who grasps that John matters to him, who's still himself but more or less understands the give-and-take of having someone who cares about him. 3) This is AU. Sherlock if he chose to dance Moriarty's jig without totally selling his morality. He is softer than the real Sherlock, but not as soft as he gets sometimes.
> 
> In my other (upcoming) fiction, "Falling is Just Like Flying," I think you'll find him much more in character. :) I think.

The car left them at the door to the club, and the familiar environment seemed to tug on John’s consciousness, dragging him back into character for a role he did not want to play. Sherlock had been quiet during the drive, every street closer to their destination making his expression cool into the same clinical detachment that he’d worn when John had first laid eyes on him. When they arrived, he straightened his coat and strode forward, bypassing the door guard with barely a glance. John followed, reflexively avoiding eye contact. He saw it, though, the way the men in suits with earpieces--Jim’s hired muscle--cast him scornful glances, aware of what their employer kept him for.

Seb stood at the foot of the lounge stairs, arms folded, gazing around the room with eyes like ice. When Sherlock reached him, he glanced at him once, then dropped his gaze. John was surprised; he had never seen such a submissive gesture in the other man. Around Jim, he held himself with a kind of restrained energy, which he unleashed when his boss set him to a task. Toward John, there was condescension, indifference, or a sort of suppressed pity. But for the first time, he looked like he was almost showing some respect.

They went upstairs, and John’s stomach plummeted as he heard Jim’s voice through the door. Seb let them in, then closed it and stood as though on guard. John stopped a pace behind Sherlock, head bowed.

Jim’s voice was a little firmer than usual, more focused on the business meeting he appeared to be running, than on playing his usual mindfuck games. Like Sherlock, the other men in the room were “partners,” rather than clients. They sat in the extra chairs that had been drawn, all looking tense and concentrated. For the life of him, John could not comprehend why any of them had come to the mad Irishman.

“Sherlock!” There was a note of that familiar fiendish glee in Moriarty’s voice. “So glad you’ve arrived, darling, do join us.” 

Sherlock removed his jacket fluidly, and John jerked slightly with the instinct to take it for him, before he reigned himself in. Even a subservient gesture of that nature would be suspicious to Jim, coming from a man who showed hatred for his captivity in his every action.

Jim had not missed his slight twitch, even if he didn’t see the motive behind the aborted movement. “Johnny boy,” he purred, his voice smooth as silk. “So glad to see you back in one piece. Do take the man’s coat, let’s see some manners.”

Hands shaking a little, he obeyed, taking the coat and scarf and going to hang them. Sherlock did not spare him a glance, which hurt more than John had prepared himself for. He really didn’t know if he trusted the man as strongly as he’d told him he did. If Sherlock was anything like Jim, then when he was bored he could play terrible, twisted, cruel games with someone. If that was the case, and he’d locked his sights on John, then John was in for a universe of pain. He had already let his heart warm to the idea of being rescued.

As he stepped back, Jim waved a hand idly, indicating the floor by his side. “Heel, Johnny.”

A slow, burning flush flooding John’s cheeks, and he felt the contentment and respite of the last 12 hours vanish as anger and humiliation seemed through him. But he did not dare disobey, moving on stiff legs to stand beside the man’s chair.

Jim’s scorching black eyes flashed to him, a warning, and he snapped his fingers irritably, pointing at the carpet. Blushing, choking on his shame, John sank to his knees. He felt a firm hand twist absently in his hair as Jim resumed speaking to the gathered men, as though he did not have the power to force a grown man to kneel at his feet.

He should have known that was hardly the worst of it. The cool fingers tightened briefly, tugging his hair too hard, and then he was jerked sideways, his face pressed against the front of Jim’s trousers.

For a moment he resisted, shoulders stiffening as he tried to raise his head, but Jim clenched his hand harder, and John’s mouth opened with a breathless, nearly silent yelp of pleading as his scalp seared with pain. Apparently achieving his goal, Jim shoved him down again--all this time, he didn’t miss a beat, speaking confidently, his attention completely focused on his business, though John knew he wasn’t unaffected--and John, caught with his lips parted, found himself quite miserably mouthing his master’s straining cock through the fine material of his trousers.

He could not turn his head, could not see anything beyond Jim’s lap, and his free hand resting idly on the armrest. He certainly had no idea how Sherlock was responding to this display. He could imagine the closed-off expression, those glimmering eyes remaining fixed on Jim, never dropping to him. Perhaps occasionally jumping to the fire, or to one of the other men, appearing comfortable in his surroundings. Not sparing a single glance for the man whose mouth was soaking Jim’s expensive trousers with saliva and--oh, God, John hated himself--tears.

It was even more infuriating, assuming Sherlock’s kindness toward him and professed interest was sincere, to know that they had shared their first kiss--regardless of the circumstances--in this room. John choked back a soft sob, and Jim swatted him slightly as though to scold him for the noise. His speech did not falter.

Finally things seemed to wrap up, and John whimpered as he was pushed off and to the floor; his lips and cheeks were chafed from rubbing the fabric of Jim’s trousers, and smeared with his own saliva. He did not move, didn’t raise his head, feeling repulsive under the curious, furtive glances the men cast his way as they gathered their coats.

As the feet shuffled out of the room, Jim’s voice called out, sing-songy again. “Oh, Sherlock, my dear, mind staying to see me a moment?”

It was like a sick parody of a teacher-student porno, with John trapped on the set. He ducked his head down, fresh tears burning his eyes as he heard Sherlock pause, allow the door to close behind the others, before he crossed the room to the fireplace. “What is it, Moriarty?”

Jim chuckled and made a tsking sound, walking over to where John was still huddled. Turning to face Sherlock as he spoke, he yanked John back to his knees by the collar of his shirt. “I wanted to hear how this one behaved himself! He’s such an interesting little pet of mine, I wondered how he put out for a friend. Normally when I rent him out, they stay here in the building where I can...intervene...if he’s difficult. He usually regrets that right away, don’t you, Johnny boy?”

John shuddered, then recoiled violently as Jim used his free hand to unzip his soaked trousers. The Irishman cackled--actually cackled, like a bloody witch, John thought--and dragged him back. “Now, now, Johnny, you’ve gone and soiled my trousers. And besides, I was generous and lent you out--off-site, no less!--last night, and I’ve missed that talented, stubborn mouth of yours. Behave.”

Nauseous, furious, and utterly shamed, John surrendered, allowing himself to be so broken. Jim fucked his mouth harshly, thrusting too deeply, yanking his hair too hard, clearly reasserting who it was that had John beaten into submission. “So, Sherlock? Was he satisfactory for you?”

Sherlock’s voice was utterly dismissive, as though he were not observing a man he’d had sex with the night before pleasure another--who he hated--right in front of him. His aplomb was enviable, though part of John just wanted to scream at him, to beg him for help. But he could hardly breathe, let alone speak or cry out.

“It’s certainly an entertaining means to pass the time, breaking down his defenses. I’m astonished you’ve managed to establish such a perfect balance of reticence and compliance in a subordinate. However did you gain power with him?”

Jim’s thrusts remained consistent, his hips arching against John’s body in a steady rhythm. “Oh, you know me, dearie, a master of opportunity. He’s such a rare find, I couldn’t pass it up. Absolutely despises me--just look at those eyes! He’d kill me if he could, I imagine--well, no, of course not, he’s ordinary, he has ordinary morals and rules and all those dull restrictions. But everyone has a price, Sherlock, surely you know that by now. Even you do. Anyone can be reduced to this.” With a particularly brutal thrust, he came, shoving John to the floor when he’d finished swallowing.

Composing himself, Jim gave Sherlock a gleaming smile. “Still, I’m glad he was diverting. And he doesn’t appear too damaged--did you at least get your money’s worth out of him? So to speak.”

Sherlock’s smile was rather chilling. “I would like to think so, but it is possible I’ve lost my touch a bit--it has been awhile since I enjoyed the proper role of a Dominant. Perhaps--if it would not inconvenience you too far--I might borrow him again sometime, get some more miles out of him. Help along the process of breaking his will, if that’s your endgame.”

His words were so effortless, so believable. His voice gave nothing away, and the smirk playing across his lips was rather disturbing. John’s heart stuttered, truly wondering if he was placing his life in the hands of a man just as insane as Jim. But for just a second, as Jim crossed the room with a cheery laugh, Sherlock’s gaze dropped to meet John’s, and his face tightened almost imperceptibly. There was something akin to regret in his gaze. No matter the reason, John chose to hold onto the trust he’d been tenuously promised. He held those piercing blue eyes until Sherlock turned to meet Jim’s approach.

“Well, Sherlock, with anyone else, I’d say bugger off. But you are quite the catch, dearie. Besides which, I know for a fact you’re just my absolute soul mate, aren’t you! So like me, in your own entirely...different way. Sides of a coin, you and I. You’ll understand how to work a puzzle like my Johnny. So, why not. I’ll send him home with you now and then. Not tonight, I’ve missed toying with him. But you’ll get him again, rest assured.”

The mocking half smile widened, stretching Sherlock’s features rather unnervingly. “Cheers.” Accepting his coat and scarf from Seb, he stepped back, allowing Jim to lead the way. “Shall we?”

Jim nodded cheerfully, sliding his hands into his pockets. Over his shoulder, almost as though it were an afterthought, he called back, “Seb, be a darling for me and clean Johnny boy up? Then get him home, I’ll have a little playtime later on.” With that, it was as if he’d forgotten both the men he all but owned.

Sherlock cast them one last look as he departed, and John saw his frown. He let out a breath, longing to call after him, to run away from this place. Their eyes met, a silent reminder to hold on. Then the door closed behind the two men, and John let his head drop back onto the sofa cushions.

Seb’s hands were firm and efficient as he wiped down John’s face, then held a bottle of water to his lips, which he gulped down quickly. The ex-soldier’s eyes glinted with some mix of scorn and pity. “You’re a fucking idiot, Watson.” When John looked at him in surprise, he scowled. “Letting feelings for a client--well, a partner, I guess--get in the mix. You’re an idiot.” Straightening John’s shirt absently, he stood, and tugged the shorter man to his feet. “Jim WILL find out. And if you’re clinging to any delusions, rest assured--he is not a merciful man. You are digging yourself a very deep grave.”

John’s jaw tightened, and he shook Seb off, frustrated by the fact that he knew he was probably right. “What the bloody hell is your problem, Moran? Did you fall in love with someone while working for Jim? Let someone slip through your fingers because you were stuck obeying his orders, doing his dirty work, unable to get away?”

Seb’s eyes blazed coldly, but he did not respond--though John had not really expected him to. There was nothing more to say, nothing that would convince John, or change the past for either of them.

When Seb did speak again, his voice was controlled, but the warning burned like fire in John’s ears. “Mark me, John Watson, you’ll end up regretting it if you fall in love with Sherlock Holmes. Love in general is a gamble that’s far from worth it, but this time, it’s a bet you will absolutely lose. You will hate the day you met the man.”

One hand tightly wrapped around John’s arm, jerking him out of the room. He kept his eyes down as Seb led him through the crowded club, not wanting to see any of them, drunk or laughing or fucking or eyeing him like he was meat, just a toy to them. He did not want to see Sherlock, enduring this obnoxiously loud space for the sake of his business investments. He did not want to see Jim, the man who had so utterly ripped his life to pieces right around him. If he looked full in the face of his own impossible situation, he knew he would shatter at last.

And he had promised to hold on.


	8. Offer Me A Little Dishonesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unstable balance of contentment and hell; and a single misspoken word can destroy John's life.
> 
> Chapter title from "Lie To Me" by Shane Mack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, friends. I'm back at school, which means...write when can, desperately.
> 
> Also, it's 2am, I'm exhausted, and my eyes won't stay open. Couldn't edit, I'm sorry,

Days blurred into weeks and became a month before John had noticed, but for the first time, he was not counting every passing second in order to even stay sane. He was no longer miserable from waking to sleeping every day. Well--some days he was, but only because Jim was still himself when he yanked the metaphorical leash and kept John at his place overnight. Nights in Jim’s possession were long, rough, and sleepless; the Irishman used him savagely, abusing him and manipulating him until he was all but broken, and when he was finished, he would order John from the room. Each time, he stumbled into the hallway and found Seb waiting silently with towels to clean him off, then he would go collapse on the sofa until morning.

And then there were nights when Jim was too busy to be bothered with John, and these nights were the best he could remember in all his life. If Jim dismissively waved him away with an impatient, “I don’t need you tonight, Johnny boy, have Seb take you,” John all but ran for the car. Like the dog Jim viewed him as, he thought in annoyance, but he couldn’t help his enthusiasm. Seb would drive him across the city to Baker Street and leave him there. He would climb the stairs alone, and knock politely on the door labeled B.

On those nights, he felt human and whole again. The door would open, and Sherlock would be there, bathed in the homey glow of his various lamps and shaded lights, wearing his usual black slacks and a button down of some dark, earthy tone. His dark hair would be in disarray, his eyes glinting like ice in the faint light. Sometimes his violin bow would hang from his free hand. Sometimes it was a beaker or a pipette or whatever else he’d been experimenting with. Once, it was a razor blade (he’d been studying some severed fingers, apparently, charming), and John had experienced a mild panic attack at the thought that Sherlock would want to cut him the way Jim did. Sherlock had discarded the blade instantly and kissed the fear away.

And those were the moments that made the rest of John’s day fade into white noise, and he surrendered happily. 

It had been a blissful, fast-paced month, and every few nights he was given this gift. Tonight there was a pen in Sherlock’s hand as he opened the door, and his face brightened slightly when he saw John. “Didn’t keep you tonight, then?”

John shook his head, smiling as he stepped inside. “Nope. I’m all yours.”

He was used to the touch of those long, elegant fingers by now, but it still made him gasp as Sherlock reached around him to unzip his jacket, dragging it off his arms as he wriggled to comply. He watched eagerly as Sherlock went to work on his shirt buttons next, opening it to reveal his tanned chest and firm stomach.He was arching back reflexively, wanting every bit of contact he could get.

“I like the sound of that,” Sherlock murmured in his ear, kissing and suckling at the lobe. John whimpered needfully, reaching behind himself blindly to cup one hand over the hard curve of Sherlock’s cock. The taller man muttered approvingly, rubbing himself into the offered hand. “So what do you want tonight, John Watson? How shall I make you cum?”

It made John’s throat close with emotion, the thought that this beautiful man actually cared if he took pleasure from their exchange. But this was no time to be sappy.

He twisted his face, capturing Sherlock’s lips in a fierce kiss. Teeth nibbled at lips, tongues probed and explored, and John groaned breathlessly into Sherlock’s mouth as he reached around John to squeeze his own impressive erection through his jeans. “Tell me,” he whispered heatedly, delicately leaving wet kisses and small love bites down the curve of John’s neck.

John twisted around in Sherlock’s grasp, tangling his fingers into that luxurious thick hair and yanking him down for a searing kiss, leaving them both panting when he drew back to stare into the pale, all-seeing eyes. “I want you....to be....rough, with me, Sherlock.” He swallowed hard, trying and failing (as always) to read the reaction in his lover’s face. “I want to feel in my body how much you possess me. You have my mind. I want--that is, if you want it--I want you to show me that I’m yours.”

Those incredible artist’s hands tightened on his waist. “Are you certain of that, John? I warned you that I am not so different from your employer. To see me possessive...I don’t want to frighten you away.”

John smiled faintly. “Are you jealous, when he keeps me to himself, when I’m not sent to ‘amuse’ you?”

Sherlock’s angelic face darkened. “Violently so.”

Another small, impish grin. “I want to see that. Please, Sherlock. Show me that you don’t like letting him touch me when I’m away from you.”

Sherlock gave him a long, measured look. “And you really trust that I would not alarm you with how jealously I would stake my claim.”

John carefully rocked his hips forward, allowing Sherlock to feel exactly how his words were still affecting him. “Completely. I rather like how serious you’re being.” He bounced up onto his toes, letting his lips hover just over Sherlock’s. “Take me, Sherlock.”

 

For a single heartbeat, neither of them moved. 

Then Sherlock’s hands closed around John’s upper arms, and he hauled him forward for the most heated, searching, desperate kiss they’d ever shared. John was gasping when his mouth was released. He found himself being propelled backwards, stumbling until he hit the table, which was scattered with newspaper articles and pages scrawled with Sherlock’s notes. The lanky man paid them no heed, tugging John’s shirt off and then grabbing his waist, lifting him to sit on the edge of the table. John groaned helplessly as Sherlock cleared the table with a sweep of one arm, then pushed him forcibly down onto his back.

Stretched out there, shirtless and exposed, John could only stare at the raw unger on his lover’s face. Sherlock looked ready to devour him whole. He reached up, intending to undo that gorgeous purple shirt, but Sherlock seized his wrists in a vice-like grip, and John heard himself make an obscene noise of lust, which merely made the other man grin delightedly. 

“God, John, that was beautiful...don’t try to muffle yourself. I can’t get enough of the sounds I provoke from you.” He pushed John’s arms up and over his head, flattening them with his palms turned inward and resting flat on the edge of the table. “Grasp the edge of the table, John. I intend to make you so hard and needy that you will wish to get yourself off--but I can’t allow that, so you’re going to hold onto the edge and keep your hands to yourself for me, do you understand?”

The correct answer was "barely," but John was far too eager to risk missing any of that promise. “Yes,” he whispered hoarsely. The man above him was positively quivering with excitement.

Sherlock yanked his belt and jeans open, then dragged them down his body. John shuffled his hips up, helping, and laughing as Sherlock divested him of his trousers and his pants in one go, leaving him stretched across the dining room table naked, hard as a rock, and very ready.

Lithe white hands settled on his ankles, then drifted slowly up, tracing along every inch of his bare legs and making John tremble. As Sherlock passed his thighs, his hips arched instinctively, wanting friction. His punishment was a quick slap to the side of his hip, leaving a stinging warmth that spread across his arse. John let out a keening cry, thrusting uselessly into the air for a moment.

Suddenly Sherlock’s weight was resting over him, one arm pressing on his hips, holding him down. “John, stay. Fucking. Still.”

One last feeble attempt to buck, and with great willpower, John made himself obey. He nodded weakly, and Sherlock released him, satisfied.

A second later it was a damn sight harder to obey, as Sherlock’s mouth slid over his aching prick, tongueing gently at the head and swallowing tightly around the shaft. John cried out, his voice breaking as he fought to keep his hips from snapping upward into that hot beautiful mouth.

Sherlock made a low, rumbling laughing sound, which only worsened the heat at John’s groin. “I take it you like this, then...” He introduced his hand, squeezing and stroking with his own saliva as lubricant, and John’s eyes rolled back in his head.

A few more overwhelming sucks, and John began to whimper and cry out in earnest. “Sherlock--I’m, I’m gonna--if you keep--”

The taller man raised his head, and smiled wickedly. “Much as I would love to swallow you down...I truly want to feel you climax while I am deep inside you. Is that alright, John?”

He didn’t even try to coherently think about his words. “Oh God fucking yes now please...”

Sherlock laughed openly as he stood, unbuttoning and shrugging off his shirt, then undoing his trousers hurriedly. John rolled his hips up, his legs going automatically around the lean waist of the man before him. There was a faint pop from the lube bottle, and then John was moaning in pure bliss as Sherlock’s slick fingers found his entrance, thrusting and twisting and working him open. At last he felt ready to burst if Sherlock did not fuck him already. “Sherlock, just give me your damn cock!”

A sinfully low chuckle was his response. “So impatient...” But to John’s immense relief, he felt Sherlock nudge at his entrance, slowly pushing into him. He was so very ready, and it was easy for the stronger man to slide into his body. Sherlock leaned over him, one arm wrapping around his waist, lifting his torso so that Sherlock could lean in to kiss him. It was intimate in a way John didn’t think he could ever possibly get used to, feeling someone buried inside him and then being held and kissed so tenderly. His own hands, having released his death grip on the table edge, rose ro cup Sherlock’s face, savoring the flex and tension in the other man’s jaw as they kissed.

Sherlock slipped his free hand between their straining bodies to grasp John’s erection, and he threw his head back with a guttural moan of need, writhing against the over-stimulation to his prick and his prostate. Sherlock’s voice was low and raw in his ear. “Are you mine, John Watson?” As he waited for John’s reply, his lips sealed over the flesh of John’s shoulder, biting hard, sucking harshly, leaving beautiful bruising love bites on him. John arched his back, hearing his voice crack as he cried out the answer while coming harder than he ever had under Sherlock’s able hands: “Oh, God, yes, Sherlock, I am yours, only yours!”

He felt Sherlock’s hand clenching in his hair, the other at his waist, gripping him tightly as he thrust into John, groaning at the sensation of his body spasming from orgasm. “Yes,” he panted. “Only mine. He can says you’re his, he can think that fucking you means he owns you, but I won you, didn’t I?”

John leaned back, staring into his face intently. “I’m not a prize, Sherlock. I’m yours because I believe you actually want me. He takes what he wants and leaves me broken. You...you are what I want, so I’m willing to give you all that I have.”

Sherlock stared into his eyes for a long moment, then kissed him bruisingly, shuddering as he climaxed inside John. Foreheads pressed together, sweat pouring down their bodies, Sherlock smiled at him. “You are unique in this world, John Watson. Unique for me.”

Shyly, John kissed him, heart soaring as he got an enthusiastic response. “All for you.”

Later, showered and curled up together in Sherlock’s bed, the man himself asleep as John read one of his many medical textbooks, he glanced down at the sleeping man’s face. One of the dark-haired man’s arms was slung over John’s waist, a gesture of ownership in his sleep that made John smile broadly. He could not remember a time when he didn’t feel happiest like this, able to relax and enjoy someone’s mere presence. He never wanted this to end.

* * *

In the morning, he got a text from Seb stating that he was outside in the car. Pain squeezed his heart as he went to tell Sherlock goodbye, accepting a brief kiss that seems more perfunctory than emotional. Outside, he climbed wordlessly into the black car, letting Seb carry him back to the mad Irishman.

Jim was seated at the small breakfast table, an ignored cup of tea in front of him along with a newspaper. He was speaking on the phone, rather animatedly, and John paused, wondering if he could sneak to his room and avoid contact.

“Johnny.” Jim’s voice was whip-sharp, none of his usual sardonic cold humor. He was in business mode. John slunk to his side, hating the urge to bolt that he felt, as though he were an animal willingly approaching his greatest predator.

Still listening to someone prattling away on the other end of the line, Jim snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor imperiously. John risked giving him a pleading look, braving impudence to try and dissuade him, but Jim’s expression darkened. Another snap. John sank to his knees, nausea bubbling unpleasantly in his stomach. Huddled between Jim’s spread knees, he worked his trousers open and tugged his pants down a ways, baring his hard and leaking cock. Whatever he was working out on the phone must be violent. Chaos always made Jim randy.

Cold, familiar fingers twisted in his hair, bringing his attention back to the present as he was forced down. Barely opening his mouth in time, John gagged hard as he was forced to take Jim’s entire cock. As usual, it was clearly not about an exchange between two partners; it was Jim, taking his pleasure. John was just a tool, no different than his own hand--but Jim never dirtied those. This made more sense to him.

John’s mind drifted away from what he was doing, and slowly he focused on Jim’s phone call.

“...the poor bastard seems to think that government lout is more intimidating than I am. Regardless of why he would do something so utterly stupid and paint a target on himself, he has. He cracked under Holmes--yes, the older one, you piece of shit. I’ll need to do something about it...send a message that will make it very clear how I handle people who think they can be clever.” There was a pause as he listened, and absently he reached his free hand down to wrap his fingers around John’s windpipe, cutting off his air supply. He struggled instinctively, but he was pinned between the prick in his mouth and the table over his head. A horrible wheezing sound broke from him, muffled by Jim’s cock. He caught the Irishman’s gaze. Those terrible black eyes were just staring at him, thoughtfully. Finally, as John began to think he’d pass out, Jim released his grip, letting John slide back to gasp for air. Before he could stop panting, though, Jim yanked him back down by his hair, forcing him back onto his prick. Bitter pre-cum coated John’s tongue, and the desire to bite down--consequences be damned--was overwhelming. Tears slid down his cheeks as he continued to suck.

Jim’s voice was clipped, not indicative of all that he was about to cum down anyone’s throat. “Well, it’s the perfect message for such an insipid waste of oxygen. Have the usual trucks go in, let him think the import is on schedule so he can sell it all to the Ice Man. But see to it that I will see the biggest, most dramatic fucking explosion possible. I want his entire system leveled, and anyone working for him destroyed. Blow it up. Burn him down.”

He must have gotten a confirmation, because abruptly Jim hung up and tossed the phone aside. His fingers tightened further, and John yelped around his cock as he shoved him down savagely, thrusting his hips up to fuck his throat brutally, leaving it raw and sore. Just as swiftly as everything else he did, Jim climaxed, his hips stuttering as he pushed hard into John’s throat, trapping him until he’d swallowed every bitter drop.

And then he was done with John. Jim shoved his head away, and John let himself fall backwards, landing on his arse under the table and staying still. Jim stood, tucking himself back in, and went to empty his now-cold tea. Scowling about this bombing situation, he glanced at John, cowering under the table, and snorted. “I won’t need you today, Johnny boy. Things to do...people to kill. You know.”

John’s chest tightened, wondering if he might be allowed the day to himself. “Could I go home, sir?”

There was a split second in which he just waited, and then he felt the air leave the room. Jim had gone still, half-turned toward him. Beyond that, he could see Seb in the doorway to the living room; he had just frozen in his steps, his face whipping toward John with a look of disbelief and disgust. And John realized what he had just said, and to whom.

“--Holmes, sir?” he attached too quickly, his heart dropping to his toes and tunnelling on down. “Could I go to Holmes, sir? It would keep me out of your way.”

Jim raised an eyebrow, looking at John the way he imagined a venomous snake looks at a creature it could eat, but didn’t consider it good enough sport to attack. “How self-sacrificing, Johnny boy. I didn’t know you cared.”

John was struggling to remember how he normally behaved around Jim, and how he needed to reply. “I thought it was time I start making the best with what I have, sir.”

Behind Jim, Seb snorted, and John wanted to throttle him. Jim chuckled and stepped forward, stroking his hair back lightly, yet there was still threat in his touch. “So glad you’re starting to see things my way, Johnny. I look forward to...exploring your new-found dedication.” He straightened, turning away and leaving John confused, and vaguely terrified. From the other room, Jim called back, “Go ahead, then, darling. Seb, take him back and then come meet me.” He glanced back mockingly. "Good thing you put that mouth of yours to its proper use, Johnny boy. Else I might be irritated about all this driving around for Mr. Holmes' benefit." He disappeared into his own room.

John was on his feet heading for his own room immediately. He didn’t own much, but he wished to maximize the opportunities in a whole day he was actually allowed to spend with Sherlock.

As he flung his few articles of clothing into the scruffy backpack he owned, he heard Seb’s soft footsteps enter the room. His stomach tightened. “Go on and say it.”

Seb snorted again, derision dripping from his voice. “You’ve fucked up, Watson. Royally.”

John spun toward him, pissed off and uneasy. “Seb, you say that after everything I do. Just because you’re too whipped to disobey or, you know, think for yourself, doesn’t mean I have to bend over happily for that arsehole. He can’t break me.”

Seb rolled his eyes, stepping forward to stand toe-to-toe to John, glaring into his eyes. “This isn’t about bravery, you idiot. And it’s not some epic romance where good will win and you and your fuck-buddy will ride off into the sunset and get married. You’re Jim’s bitch. Another hound sniffing around what’s his? He will end him.”

John’s jaw was clenched so tightly it creaked. “Jesus, Seb, you’re messed up. What’s wrong with you? If you really don’t love him--which I’m struggling to believe right now--why won’t you leave? Why not find someone who will take care of you, who will love you?”

Seb stared at him for a long moment, his eyes dark and hard and furious. “I did, once,” he said coolly. “I thought I was tough, a survivor, that I could sell my soul to Satan and still dance in heaven.” His fists clenched and unclenched restlessly. “My feelings for an innocent outsider got the bastard killed.”

John’s mouth fell open, and sympathy filled him--even if he couldn’t say out loud how he felt about Sherlock, he couldn’t imagine the grief he’d feel if he died. His hand rose, seeking somehow to offer comfort to Seb, though he had no idea what he could say. 

Seb jerked out of his reach, his eyes flat and cold and devoid of any feelings. He strode to the door, turning back to snap over his shoulder. “And that’s what will happen to your Mr. Holmes. Now grab your bag.”

John adamantly wanted to pretend he wasn’t frightened, that Seb’s words were not ringing and echoing in his head on repeat as Seb drives him away again. But he couldn’t shake it. He’d made a mistake in the kitchen, his little Freudian slip eliminating any chance that Jim might now take Sherlock away from him.

Whatever his fate, he had a small respite, just one night more, at least. As the car turned slowly onto Baker Street, his heart rate accelerated, and he impatiently pushed Jim from his mind.

If he had known the danger he was walking into, he may never have gone to Sherlock that night.


	9. Coming Loose At the Seams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's true what they say; before the storm, it really is peaceful.
> 
> Or: sweet words, manipulative plotting, and passionate fuckery. And an introductory nod to Mycroft, if you wondered when that loveable bastard was going to get in on the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! Back in school and buried by life. But I know where this story is going, and when my internet is returned to me tomorrow *grumble grumble growl* I can keep writing more insteadofstudying--I mean, when I am all done with homework, naturally.
> 
> Chapter title is from the epic song "Scars" by Basement Jaxx. I'm likely to use lyrics from now on.
> 
> Comments are love!

John could hear the violin as he climbed the stairs, and he smiled at the haunting, beautiful melody that Sherlock was playing. It gave him a sense of peace, combatting the anxiety still bubbling in his gut. When he reached the door marked B, he raised one hand and knocked softly.

The music halted, and he heard the familiar, measured footsteps come to the door. Since Sherlock was hardly expecting him back so soon, John went ahead and called out, "It's me, Sherlock." There was a soft sound of surprise from the other man, and the door was unlocked and swung open.

John smiled as Sherlock came into view, looking disheveled, like he’d been lying on the sofa for a while. His dark blue shirt was unbuttoned a good way, and the sleeves were rolled attractively to his elbows. He was barefoot below his black slacks, and as usual, John felt his body warming just from proximity to this beautiful man. He glanced at the bow, still hanging loosely from Sherlock’s right hand, and chuckled. “Did I disturb you composing?”

Sherlock’s eyes were unusually soft, and full of affection as he stepped aside, allowing John to enter. “Not at all,” he answered, his deep voice resonant with the whimsy John could always detect when there was music on the other man’s mind. “Nothing intentional, at any rate. I was just letting the notes take me where they would.”

“It was beautiful,” John said firmly, amused that his lover didn’t seem to realize his own incredible talent.

Sherlock gave a small, delicate smile--and then surprised John as he raised his free hand to cup the shorter man’s cheek, tilting his face up and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. It was not demanding or assertive, or even asking for anything more. Just a kiss, simple, and almost tender.

When he drew back, John raised an eyebrow, questioning. Sherlock’s eyes crinkled with rarely-seen laughter lines as he turned away, returning the bow to its case and sinking into his armchair, gazing at John with a fond kind of interest. “I like having you here, with me,” he said at last, looking almost as startled by his words as John felt. “It is a pleasant surprise that he has released you a second night in a row. Did he give a reason, or just dismiss you?”

John nibbled his lip, feeling a slight blush fill his cheeks as he remembered his accidental slip when he was talking to Jim. “Actually....I asked to be sent.” At Sherlock’s astonished expression, John smiled ruefully. “Well, I mean, he did tell me off first. Said he didn’t need me, that he had to attend to some business first.” Something in the recollection of Jim’s phone conversation niggled at John’s memory, telling him it had to do with Sherlock, but he batted that aside for a moment. “Knowing I’d end up being left locked up in the flat all day, I just sort of reacted--asked if I could come ho--here.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked across his face, taking in every thought and feeling, as always. A half-smirk quirked his lips up on one side. “That’s not exactly what you said to him, is it?”

John made a face, sticking his tongue out and enjoying the subsequent sound of Sherlock’s laugh. “Alright, I may have gotten a bit tripped up on my words, but it didn’t matter, he still let me come.”

Sherlock arched one eyebrow, the expression that John knew meant he was in for some sort of deviousness from his lover. “Oh, I sincerely hope not, John. I plan to be the one who lets you cum today.”

An inescapable grin split John’s face, loving the bedroom banter that Sherlock had taken to using with him, because despite his efforts to be more stoic than all that, a little dirty talk went a long way with him. But the thought that had bothered him earlier hadn’t quite let go.

“Not that I plan to say no to that at all--in fact, the answer’s fuck yes, now, please--but first--” He frowned, going back over what he had overheard that morning in his head. “Sherlock, do you have any family ties to the government?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and in the soft sunlight filtering through the window, they appeared to be a frosty mint color suddenly. “Why?” he asked sharply.

John took a small step back, alarmed by the change in Sherlock’s attitude. “I--well, it’s why Jim doesn’t need me today. He...he was on the phone with someone, and I heard it.” A small pause, in which Sherlock did not ask why or how Jim allowed John to remain in the room with him during a business transaction, and John did not offer that information. “He was talking about someone cracking under a ‘government lout’ because he’s as intimidating as Jim is, and he used the name Holmes, but he said ‘the older one,’ so I wondered.”

A mirthless smirk flashed across the other man’s feline features. “Oh, he’d be delighted to hear the word ‘intimidating’ used in the same sentence as his name, even if Moriarty doesn’t believe it to be true. In answer, John, yes, I have highly-placed political ties. I have an elder brother, who would tell you that he holds ‘a minor position in the British government,’ but it would be more apt to say he IS the British government. He holds quite a lot of authority, and he can wield it quite freely.” Sherlock frowned slightly. “Though I can’t imagine what...oh, oh, of course. The factory. Is that what you heard being discussed, John?”

Frowning, he struggled to remember. “Yeah...yes, a factory was mentioned. What is it about?”

Sherlock waved a hand airily. “My brother uncovered an illegal importing system using the factory as a headquarters. The owner had gotten in over his head in debt, primarily through Moriarty, and letting his property be used thus was the least...painful...way to repay. My brother offered him amnesty--well, it is treason, some of the contraband entering England in his trucks is quite certainly intended for domestic terrorism--in exchange for giving up the names of some of Moriarty’s lower-ranking dogs. I know I work with the bastard, but I have no qualms about seeing his ‘business’ take a few blows.” Sherlock held his hand out to John, who accepted it willingly, perching on the edge of the armchair and shivering pleasantly as Sherlock began to trace his fingers up and down John’s bare forearms.

His brow furrowed again. “But then--how does Jim know that he’s been turned in? Or at least that some of his men have been.”

Sherlock snorted, looking bemused. “Well, it wouldn’t do for my own brother to make such a spectacular bust, and I not to have said a Moriarty would never believe I didn’t have some inkling, after all, my brother still considers me a trustworthy subject of her Majesty’s empire. Well. He’s known since we were in uni that I have contacts in every circle, and can get any information that I deem valuable. But he would be surprised to know that I get my details on Moriarty from such a...close vantage point. Ah, well.” He tapped his finger in a series of morse code phrases along John’s skin, moving too quickly for John to translate the words. “I had to ‘sell’ him the intel. I was able to get to the factory rat, he knows better than to tell my brother that Moriarty knows he’s been betrayed before the bust takes place. I didn’t give Moriarty all the information. There will really just be a few mutual losses, nothing too permanent, everyone moves on.”

John’s stomach twisted. “Uh--Sherlock, but he’s--I mean. Jim was talking about an explosion. He said to have trucks go in as normal, like a regular import, and then he wants to see everything explode. Does he mean the factory?”

Sherlock looked stunned for the first time John had ever seen, and then a dark look covered his face. “Of course,” he said irritably. “Stupid, stupid of me. Of course he would not handle it in a small-scale way. It’s a betrayal to his little kingdom, just as the whole damn business is to Mycroft’s precious bloody commonwealth.” John wasn’t sure who Mycroft was, but given that it was just as odd a name as Sherlock’s, he was willing to guess it was the brother.

Sherlock stood abruptly, making John lose his balance on the arm of the chair. He jumped up, watching the taller man lithely dart across the room, snatching up his cell phone and typing out a text, his long pale fingers blurring across the screen as he sent a message.

“What are you--?” John began, but Sherlock spoke over him, foreseeing the question, of course. “Notifying my brother. I am unscrupulous about many things, and I told you the night we met that there would most likely be lives on my hands--that you’d need to forgive me some of my choices. But this is not one I have to make. My brother can minimize the number of lives at risk in that factory. Moriarty can have his bloody fire. But he did not order me to kill mindless workers, and I won’t unless it’s unavoidable.”

John’s chest tightened with gratitude for the man in front of him, and when Sherlock tossed his phone back onto the table, still scowling, John stepped forward and took his hand. Sherlock returned the pressure, but his eyes were far away.

Unexpectedly, a question rose in John’s mind. “Why do you always call him Moriarty? He calls you Sherlock to your face.”

The black-haired man made a face of annoyance, his nose wrinkling in a way that John would never dare to tell him was fucking adorable. “I made the error of saying he could call me what he likes--I resent his familiarity. I address him as Moriarty because that is his name. We are not friends, and much as he liked tugging on puppet strings to control his little realm, I do not have respect or liking enough for his person to ever grow more intimate than last names.” His gaze dropped to meet John’s. “Why do you call him Jim?”

John sucked in a surprised little breath. “Because he slapped me and cut me and had Seb beat me until I swore to.”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened, and he raised his free hand, curving it around John’s chin, feeling the faint stubble from not getting to shave that morning. “He truly wanted to possess your soul, didn’t he.”

John had to look away, the intensity of those beautiful eyes threatening to overwhelm him. “I suppose. He never will, though. He’s too dark.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, looking somehow sad. He licked his lips, noting how John tracked the motion. “Am I not more or less the same as he is?”

“No!” Shocked, horrified, John reached up, pressing Sherlock’s hands to his own face, soothing himself with their warmth. “God, Sherlock, no, how can you think that?? You have...decency, and humanity. You’re a mad fucking genius, and apparently quite the criminal mastermind, with how much he crows over you, but you’re...you’re you. You still have a heart.”

Sherlock almost smiled, wistfully. “You’re the only person who’s ever said such a thing to me.”

That got a small, bitter laugh out of John. “Well, you’re the only one who’s ever done what you do to me, too.”

“And what do I do to you?”

The words gave John pause, and he looked into Sherlock’s eyes. The air between them changed, became more charged somehow, and he let out a slow breath, feeling the usual warm, breathless euphoria that Sherlock always produced in him. He was torn between laughing, and moaning all of a sudden.

“Everything,” he answered, and his voice had dropped to a hoarse murmur. “You do everything to me. And I want you to do everything more.”

Turquoise eyes darkened to cobalt blue, simmering with a powerful promise. There was a soft ding from the table. Sherlock reached back for his phone with one hand, keeping the other pressed to John’s cheek. He checked the screen, nodded, and tossed the phone away again. “My brother has the situation in hand,” he murmured. “The losses in this will be heavier on Moriarty’s side. Can you survive that?”

John exhaled shakily, pressing forward into the solid body in front of him. “Ask me tomorrow. Tonight, I just need you. Please?”

Sherlock smiled lightly, leaning down to press another agonizingly kind kiss to John’s mouth. “Of course.” 

Taking John‘s hand, he led him down the hallway to his own room. Their movements were languid and slow as they always were, lovers with all the time in the universe, never acknowledging the real world when they were here like this, together.

John eased Sherlock out of his shirt, then knelt to open his belt and trousers, grinning at Sherlock’s breathless moan at the sight of him on his knees. Gently he pushed, until the other man obligingly sank back onto the bed, propped up on his elbows to watch John.

He straightened up, unbuttoning his uniform shirt slowly, teasingly. Those incandescent blue eyes absorbed every motion of his fingers with feral hunger, making his joints feel like water, but he kept it together. The shirt slid down his arms slowly, caught on his wrists, then hung from one hand, and then it was discarded.

Sherlock sat up, but he did not try to reach for John, who was glad for that. But he still managed to steal the standing man’s breath completely as he wrapped one long-fingered fist around his impressive erection, pumping almost lazily up and down, his eyes fixed on John’s body. 

John, for his part, was momentarily frozen by the sheer fucking sexiness of the sight. Sherlock looked up at him, and the dark warning in those blown-wide eyes was enough to send every drop of blood he could spare rushing south. “Continue,” Sherlock said succinctly, and his voice was liquid sin. There was no chance of John disobeying him.

His hands closed over the hem of his undershirt, which was thin, barely-there white cotton, sleeveless, and definitely only in the way. Stripped of it, he bit his lip and glanced at Sherlock through his lashes, loving the way he was responding to the little show. The taller man was watching him longingly, stroking himself more for sensation than with any intention of coming from it, using his own pre-cum to lubricate the motions of his fist.

He knew things would speed up soon enough; even if Sherlock had an admirable level of self-control in the bedroom, which he usually did not bother with, the fact remained that between them, it was Sherlock who led, dominated...owned. John more than happily surrendered himself to his lover. Once his little striptease became too much, he would happily submit to the other man’s passion.

And Sherlock was clearly nearing that point. He watched John open his jeans, letting them slide to the floor and then kicking them off. He watched the pants drift down next, to be discarded as well. Then John stepped forward, holding one hand out, inviting him to take what he wanted now.

Without hesitation, Sherlock seized his wrist and jerked him over himself. Laughing, John fell, spreading his knees to straddle the taller man’s body, gazing down at him with warmth and pleasure washing through his body in tidal waves. He could not imagine finding happiness this intense anywhere else, or in any other person’s arms. It was a frightening certainty.

Sherlock’s hands danced lightly over his thighs, spreading them wider across his lap, teasing his achingly hard cock with not-quite-touches, making him writhe and growl obscenities. Laughing, the impossible man wrapped a hand around the back of John’s neck, pulling him down for a fierce, biting kiss. 

When they drew apart, he whispered against John’s lips, hot and breathy. “John, would you ride me?”

The words, the heat of that orgasmic low voice, and the fire blazing in his lover’s eyes were too much for John, and he had to breathe deeply to reign in the wave of pleasure that nearly knocked him over the edge. Once he was certain of his control (more or less), he looked into Sherlock’s eyes and grinned. “Absolutely.”

A guttural groan slipped from the other man, thrilling him. His hands scrabbled across the surface of the bedside table, finding the bottle of lube Sherlock had taken to keeping within reach, given how often they tumbled into this room, tearing at clothes and panting each other’s names.

Snapping it open, he worked fast, slicking his fingers and reaching back to prepare himself, loving the way Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock as he reached behind himself to slide a finger easily inside, his body still a little stretched from Sherlock’s thorough attentions the night before. It hardly took a moment to work up to two fingers, and then just for the fun of it he moved too quickly onto three, letting it sting, loving it.

Sherlock seized his wrist once again, stopping him from impaling himself so aggressively fast. Before John could protest, to assure him that he enjoyed the mild pain, knowing that it was Sherlock he was preparing for, the lube was snatched from him as well. He could not bother to voice his disagreement, because he didn’t disagree anymore; Sherlock drenched his own fingers, and John rose up onto his knees to allow him access. Their free hands twisted together, clutching at one another’s fingers as Sherlock slid two fingers into him easily, crooking and scissoring and gently spreading the muscle. A third digit joined, and John keened his lover’s name desperately as he dropped his weight down, riding the other man’s fingers as needfully as eagerly as if it were his cock.

Sherlock’s voice was like gravel when he finally groaned, “Enough, John...let me take you.”

All too willing to comply, he pulled himself off of the invading digits, eagerly waiting as Sherlock added a little more lube to his cock, then lined himself up. “Alright,” he growled, and John let out a long, wordless moan of bliss as he sank down, bottoming out easily. For a single breath, they held still, connected in such an incredible way, holding onto one another with everything they had.

Then, abruptly, Sherlock rolled, and John cried out in surprised pleasure he found himself on his back, pinned chest to hips by the man still buried inside him, gazing into eyes that were deeper and more confusing and mesmerizing than the ocean.

Sherlock looked as though he were adrift, his face frozen in a sort of dazed, longing bliss. “God, John,” he whispered, and that seemed to be enough; John understood. He nodded, pushing up just enough to press their mouths together in a kiss that was almost heartbreaking, because it held so many more promises than he should dare to make. But he had never been the type to play it safe.

It was not a fuck, or just sex, and it hadn’t been that basic between them for a long time. They made love, even if Sherlock didn’t believe he was capable of it; John felt in in every touch, those long musician’s fingers tracing over his face and throat and chest, stroking through his hair, sliding in and out of his mouth, teasing his sensitive nipples, reaching between them to stimulate his prick--which hardly needed the additional contact, pressed as it was between their torsos, where they seemed unable or unwilling to leave even an inch of space at any time.

When he felt the pressure building at the base of his spine, a shudder of contentment slid through him, and he turned his face to whisper into Sherlock’s ear, “Touch me, Sherlock...I’m close, I want to cum for you...”

Sherlock tilted his face to look at him, and grinned broadly. Before John could speak again, the taller man carefully pulled out of him--John protested, but the words died in his throat as Sherlock ducked down, coming to rest between his legs, and took him into his mouth.

The helpless moan he let out was almost animalistic, but he couldn’t care. John tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, not trying to guide him, but holding on for dear life as that the man’s talented tongue tortured him right to the brink. Within minutes he was gasping the man’s name, warning him.

He caught one glimpse of Sherlock’s lascivious grin before he was gone, undone by the hard suck and quick pumps of his lover’s hand, groaning in sheer bliss as he came, and Sherlock swallowed every drop.

When he came down from the high, he threw one hand out, locating the abandoned lube bottle among the sheets. He tugged on Sherlock’s long lanky body until he crawled back over John, only to hiss brokenly in pleasure as John reached between their sweaty bodies to stroke him with a slick palm. He found the dark-haired man’s ear again, still panting from his own orgasm. “I want you back inside me this instant...finish what you started, if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock grabbed his hands, and John dropped the bottle in delighted surprise as his arms were pinned by his shoulders. Sherlock kicked his legs apart, releasing one of his wrists just long enough to realign himself and press inside, and then John was pinned again, his body arching in post-orgasmic, lazy pleasure, as he was ridden hard. They rocked together, hips jostling and skin sliding wetly on skin, and then Sherlock was gasping in his ear, moaning his name, and John felt himself experience an impossible second orgasm, almost painful in the overload of pleasure, even as he felt Sherlock thrust in deeply, and then go still, the wet hot warmth of his release deep inside John leaving him feeling more fulfilled than he ever had in his life.

For several minutes they lay together in silence, arms entangled and bodies still connected. The only sound was their mingled panting and soft sights of post-coital bliss.

Then Sherlock rolled off of him, smiling slightly, and propped himself on one arm to drop a kiss on John’s lips. “You are amazing, John,” he murmured, bringing a flush of pleasure to his lover’s face.

The lanky man swung off of the bed, vanishing for a moment to fetch a damp towel, and returned to wipe them both down. John was still awed at being taken care of, and he shivered happily as he felt his skin cool down under Sherlock’s ministrations.

When they were both settled back in bed, the sheets pulled to their waists and Sherlock spooning him from behind, nose buried in the shaggy hair at the back of John’s neck, his heartbeat finally became steady. It was still only early evening, and he doubted he would sleep the whole night, but for this moment, he could not be arsed to move. The sex had left every muscle limp and relaxed, and his mind was shut down. He felt pleasantly buzzed, drunk on the touch of the man pressed sleepily up behind him.

He turned his face, just able to see Sherlock’s unruly black curls tumbling over closed eyes and a high, sharp cheekbone, his beautiful face surreal and glowing faintly in the dim light shining in from the hallway. The steady press of his chest rising and falling against John’s back, coupled with the way his fingers had loosened their unbreakable grip on John’s hands, told him that Sherlock was asleep now, or nearly there. As always, he was safe here, allowed to sleep curled into the embrace of this bizarre, fantastic man.

John smiled, raising their entwined hands to silently press a kiss to the back of Sherlock’s, savoring the texture and taste of the ivory skin beneath his lips. “Sherlock,” he whispered into the stillness, testing; when there was no response other than the continued steady breathing rushing against the skin of his neck, his smile broadened, feeling brave enough to tell Sherlock the one thing he was afraid to, the one thing he desperately needed him to know.

“I love you.”


	10. Dear Hate, I Know You're Not Far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The climactic confrontation! 
> 
> WARNING: Seriously for serious friends, this chapter depicts torture/severe beatings and is quite violent. Zero porn, I'm so sorry. But lotta mean mean bone breaking deathy violence. Ye be warned.
> 
> Heyheyhey comments are love!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I am SO SORRY this took so long. My excuse is: School. :(  
> 2) Chapter title is from the song "Dear Ex, You Don't Own Me" by Disciple.  
> 3) Heads up, I've been in full-on Klaine fanfic mode, so anything just super out of character/weird here...I blame Blaine Anderson for getting into my head.
> 
> Yep. One more chapter! or epilogue, as it is.

When John opened his eyes, he was aware of two things: something was amiss, and the bed was oddly cool and empty behind him. Rolling onto his back, he frowned slightly when he saw that Sherlock was gone. It was unusual for him to wake up alone. Pulling himself slowly out of bed, John dragged yesterday’s clothes on languidly, yawning as he tried to place what felt wrong.

It wasn’t until he entered the kitchen that he realized it; there was no scent of coffee or tea brewing. On the rare mornings when Sherlock did leave bed before John, he started John’s tea and even put his toast and jam together for him. But today the air was conspicuously clear of the scent of tea leaves or warm bread.

It took all of two minutes to confirm that Sherlock was not in the flat, not even upstairs in the second bedroom that he had no use for, since John slept with him. There was a tightness in John’s chest that he was pretending not to notice, determined to find a note or explanation for where his lover had gone.

The harsh chime of Sherlock’s phone ringing made him freeze. Sherlock Holmes never left his mobile behind, but it was quite clear that he was not home. John’s heart was pounding now as he approached the table, picking up the buzzing phone. The number was unlisted. Swallowing hard to attempt to bring moisture back into his painfully dry mouth, he raised the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

Even if he wanted to, he could never fail to recognize Seb’s normally deadpan voice--though it was now taut with restrained anger. “I told you--I fucking told you, Watson.” The ex-soldier let out an irritated sigh, and John could somehow picture him perfectly, phone pressed to his ear, the thumb and index finger of his free hand pinching the bridge of his nose. “Come to the club, John. Now. Lounge room.”

John didn’t say a word, didn’t even acknowledge that he’d heard. The call dropped and he let the mobile slip from nerveless fingers. To be fair, Seb had ‘told’ him many things across the months, but he didn’t try to fool himself about what this referred to. His eyes darted around, landing on Sherlock discarded wallet still sitting on the end table by his chair. Yanking it open, John pulled out enough for a cab fare, then ran out of the flat without locking up.

He tried to stay calm, keeping his face as neutral as possible, but his heart and his stomach felt so tight he could hardly breathe. He wanted to throw up. As the cab navigated the streets from Baker Street to Jim’s nightclub, John kept his fist pressed painfully over his mouth.

The club door was unlocked, which was unnerving in its own way. John’s heart veered between beating too fast, and not at all, as he slipped inside the darkness of the off-hours club, jumping at every shadow. Above him to the right, the door to the lounge appeared to be cracked, faint light spilling out across the steel stairs leading down. Heart in his throat, John crossed the main floor and climbed the steps.

When he reached the door and pushed it open to reveal the scene within, his stomach dropped to his toes. The room was dimly lit by a few of the lamps, but most of the illumination came from the fire. Jim stood in front of the hearth, hands in his pockets and eyes shadowed demonically by the flickering flames. Seb stood, as always, just behind him, one hand idly holding his handgun--and the other gripping the back of Sherlock’s neck with mock gentleness.

Sherlock was on his knees, shoulders slumped, his wrists cuffed together with the chain looped around a steel ring that was attached to the stone apron of the fireplace. A strip of black leather was bound around his head, gagging him. In the 30 seconds John needed to take this in, he saw the slowly dripping blood that oozed down the side of Sherlock face and neck, and the bruises visible on his chest and arms. He had been badly beaten to get him so contained. John felt a faint prickle of pride for his lover’s fierce spirit.

He took a jerky step forward, but was stopped by the two thugs that moved forward to level guns at his chest. His lip curled derisively at the cowardice of the setup. Finally, he lifted his gaze to meet Jim’s.

The Irishman regarded him with cold indifference, much like the first time he’d gazed upon John, so many months before. Rocking slightly on his heels, he heaved a sigh, stepping toward John, who flinched back instinctively. Jim bared his teeth animalistically.

“Johnny boy...you have really fucked this up, haven’t you.” He saw the defiant flash in John’s eyes, the way his fists clenched at his sides, and he laughed, high and cruel. “You poor, poor, ordinary bastard.” Reaching out, he grasped John’s jaw, tightening his hold to the point of pain when John tried to rear back. His fingers dug into John’s flesh, almost certainly leaving bruises. “I have very few rules, Johnny boy, I really do. I have to keep it simple--I’m ever so changeable, after all, and it can be so impossible for others to keep up with my...mercurial moods. But if nothing else, I am possessive. When something...or someone...belongs to me, I do. Not. Share. Rights to them.”

John opened his mouth, wanting to cut off this disturbing tirade, but Jim snarled, sliding his thumb up to thrust it into John’s mouth, pinning his tongue wetly to the bottom of his mouth. Startled and hurting, John didn’t fight. Jim smirked broadly. “I may have been inconsistently generous, willing to share my best toy, so seemingly flippantly...it certainly appears to have been too charitable on my part.”

Still pinching down on John’s tongue, Jim turned his head to peer back at Sherlock’s hunched figure. The huddled man was staring up at them from beneath the fringe of his dark curls, his face twisted with anger as Jim toyed with John. “I was ever so fuckin’ kind, was I not? I let him play with you so very often, Johnny boy, even long after I realized he had no intention of contributing to my work of breaking you. He was...savoring you. And yet I was magnanimous enough to allow it to continue.” His eyes hardened to ice. “My mistake.”

Looking back at John, the Irishman sneered in disgust. “I was happy to let him play with you whenever I was busy, Johnny boy. But that hardly means he was welcome to go and steal your heart.”

John’s breath caught, a choked sound slipping from him, and Jim made a noise of contempt, releasing his jaw as he turned back toward Sherlock.

John’s voice was hoarse, desperate, but he couldn’t waste time on feeling embarrassed. “God, Jim, please, don’t do this. Don’t hurt him, please, I’m begging you.” He took a shaky step closer to Jim, but the guns still pointing at him cocked with warning, the sound hitting John as if gunshots had already been fired. His fell back a step, hands raised plaintively. “Please...it isn’t his fault, it’s not his fault that I was a weak, emotional idiot. It’s not his fault I let myself fall in love with him. He hardly meant for that to happen. It’s all on me, I swear.”

Jim’s voice was cutting and scornful as he replied, keeping his back to John and staying focused on Sherlock. “You’re certainly more of a fool than I thought, Johnny boy...a complete fool, if you think that Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn’t love you back. He was beautiful, you know, a creature as perfect and created for chaos as I am...two sides of a coin, I told him. We were meant to be...meant to tear this fuckin’ world apart and let it burn.” Jim raised his foot, and John choked out a pleading yelp as the Irishman kicked Sherlock in the chest, making his head strike the stone side of the fireplace as he rocked back. 

“But you just had to destroy that incandescent, volatile, unstoppable force of fuckin’ nature, didn’t you, Johnny boy? You dragged him down into the muck of ordinary people and ordinary feelings and ordinary fuckin’ convictions of ‘love.’ Only the trite, ridiculous idea of love would make a man as feral and flawless as Sherlock Holmes be stupid enough to cross me.”

John stood shaking, trying to understand what was going to happen, so focused on Jim’s still form that he didn’t even notice Seb slip around and come up behind him. He let out a shocked gasp as the soldier suddenly gripped his arms, jerking them together and cuffing his wrists in front of him. A heavy hand forced him to his knees on the wine red carpet, and John felt a sob choke itself in his throat. He stared at Sherlock, ready to give anything to protect the man he’d so recklessly let himself fall for.

Jim turned to stride back to him, using one hand to force his face back, locking their gazes. The mad Irishman’s face was painted with hatred.

“Once more, Johnny boy, we find ourselves at a crossroad together. Mmm, isn’t it just de ja vu-delicious. Sebby has you on your knees befor me, and you’re faced with a life-or-death choice...to save yourself, or save someone who you’ve been stupid and weak and damnably human enough to waste sentiment on.”

Abruptly releasing John’s face, Jim strode back to Sherlock, tugging his face up so that John could meet his gaze, knowing that his own eyes screamed apologies and horror at his lover. Sherlock appeared a little dazed, but there was a fire burning in his gaze that reassured John minimally; he could sense that the fight hadn’t quite died in the other man.

Jim’s voice was cutting and acidic in its cruelty. “I’ll lay it out for you, Johnny boy. I could have your precious Sherlock here beaten within an inch of his life, and dumped somewhere for the authorities to find. He will be cut off, and I’ll see to it he’s blacklisted from ever pursuing his work interests again--but it won’t be the end of the world for him. You, however, will be tossed out, your sister pulled from rehab, and the two of you left to fend for yourselves--and before you start seeing that as an opportunity to run off into the sunset with your prince charming here, let me assure you--” Jim’s face contorted into a demonic mask of coldness. “--if Sherlock tries to protect you, or assist her, I will have him hunted down and killed. Do not doubt that.”

John’s stomach seemed to be full of a slow-burning toxic fire; everything inside and out stung and ached and felt as though it were dying. He stared at the man who had taken and possessed his life so viciously, biting his lip to silence himself as he waited to hear the second option.

Jim smirked coldly. “Ah, yes...the ’or.’ Your second option is simple. Right here, right now, I punish you for this little waste of my time--both of you were, of course, but it will be your body that takes the punishment, Johnny boy. I will beat the living daylight out of you, and I will. Fucking. Destroy. You.” He grinned maniacally, licking his lips as though hungry at the thought of seeing John tortured. “Sherlock will be released and terminated from his business contract, but I won’t harm his future prospects. Your sister will continue her rehab, and be provided for when she finishes. You, of course, will be dead.”

John’s breath caught, and he stared at Jim, unable to believe that his life had slipped to this point within a year. He tried to imagine how Harry would handle it, when she cleaned up and got out, and found out he was dead--even if she never learned even half the truth of how it happened. Grief washed through him.

And then he looked at Sherlock, and it was as though the blinds were drawn back from a curtain, letting the light in. John knew, without question or hesitation.

“The people you love come first.” It was barely a mumble, but he’d said it more for himself than anyone else present--even Sherlock, who was eyeing him sharply now, seeing exactly where this was going. John sucked in a deep breath. “Me,” he says bluntly, before his voice can crack or fail him. “Kill me. Let him go.”

Jim’s smile was so barbaric it made John’s stomach curl. “Alright, Johnny boy...he can go. After he’s watched you be ripped to pieces, broken and burned...and eventually he’ll see your blood spill, when I cut your fuckin’ throat.”

Even with the raw horror that the words painted in his mind, John noticed Seb flinch where he stood, and he wondered if the ex-soldier was tired of doing Jim’s dirty work. Apparently not enough to protest it, though, as the sniper stepped forward, unsheathing the knife that was always strapped to his hip. John’s stomach heaved.

Jim took a step back, pausing next to Sherlock, whose cuffs snapped as he tried to lunge toward John. With a sickening grin, Jim used his foot to shove Sherlock back, making a mocking tsking sound. “Sit back, now, Sherlock, it’s time to enjoy the show!” He glanced back, meeting John’s horrified gaze with sudden coldness--John had never seen him look so utterly unconcerned with him. “‘Sic him, Seb.”

Suddenly the use of the pet name “Tiger” made complete sense. John screamed out in pure agony as Seb moved in, more purposeful and intent than he had ever been in the “scolding sessions” Jim had put John through.

He was dragged to his feet only to have Seb’s fist buried in his stomach, winding him and almost certainly bruising ribs. The punches continued to fall, a measured few shifted up to hit his chest, and John felt as though he was tearing apart inside, unsurprised when a particularly hard blow to his belly made him hunch over and retch, watching in morbid fascination as blood spurted from his lips, staining the floor. Distantly he heard Jim’s sick laughter.

“And now you’ve soiled my nice carpet, Johnny boy! How rude....boys? Help Seb, won’t you?”

The two thugs must’ve discarded their guns, John noted hazily. Suddenly there were too many fists and feet on him, pummeling his torso as he felt more tearing, heard something cracking, and then he couldn’t stand any longer. He fell back to his knees, hunching forward defensively. Somewhere he could hear a muffled voice screaming garbled protests, Sherlock trying to beg Jim to stop, and the sound made John feel a thousand times sicker. Sherlock was not supposed to beg. Sherlock was strong--was his strength.

Someone yanked him up by his hair, and a horrible keening noise ripped from his throat. The sound morphed into a terrible scream of desperation as he felt his left hand grabbed, and an unforgiving grip wrapped around his fingers.

“NONONONONONO--FUCKPLEASENO--AHHFUCKAHHHSTOP!” The words spewed from him almost incoherently, then broke off in disconnected sounds of unendurable, hellish pain as the hands holding his twisted too far, and the bones of his fingers snapped, unleashing fire that exploded in constant little fireworks at the end of his arms, then roared up his veins, lighting every nerve in his body with such terrible endless pain that he could not make sense of it. Somewhere above him, people were speaking, and Jim’s disgusting cold voice cut through the blur of living death. “--no, not the right. Not yet, save it for later. Here, put this out on his--”

John didn’t catch the end of the order, as it was obeyed already; Jim’s lit cigarette was pressed to the palm of his hand, which was already bruising from the fractured fingers. The sounds coming from him were inhuman, disturbing, too much, but John had never imagined that such pain was possible without passing out. The cigarette was ground into his skin, singing it and giving off just the faintest scent of burned skin. 

Jim must have lit more, because the little pinpricks of burning agony burst across the back of his hand, and his wrist, and along his arm. And then there was a far worse burn, a smouldering bone deep sizzle that produced the stench of burning meat, and John could blurrily see that a fire-poker was being pressed to his bare arm. There was a flash of silver as someone produced a knife, and then a slicing pain across his leg, the tearing of a hole being ripped in his jeans, and the poker pressed against his bare thigh. The sounds he was making were animalistic, and wrong coming from a human mouth.

More cuts, more cuts being sliced across his arms, someone yanked his shirt up and he felt the knife and the fire poker on his back, open cuts and blistering burns being scattered across his already scarred back, like Sherlock peppering him with kisses, but these kisses were killing him, destroying his flesh and breaking his mind into a thousand shards.

Someone cold and wet splashed over his back, and the new circle of hell he found himself rolling into head-first hinted that it must be vinegar, because alcohol would sting but technically help the wounds, and Jim would never allow that. John’s mouth was open in a permanent scream of sickening, pure death as he writhed and struggled to escape the agony, but it came from every side.

At one point, for a few helpless, ragged breaths, he pried his eyes open and found himself staring up at Seb. The ex-soldier stood back a little, watching the proceedings with hooded eyes. There was something in his face that John felt like he recognized. His throat tightened, then opened in a rush of sobbing breath as he found his voice.

“Seb....Seb, please....oh, God....” He broke off in a scream as a well-aimed kick struck a cracked rib, and another stepped hard on the gaping cuts across his thighs. Sucking in air, he battled down the screaming and tried to regain control of his vocal cords. “Please, God, Seb, help me...you knew what love--OH FUCK!--what love feels like!--fuck, PLEASE, STOP--you aren’t...aren’t this person, Moran, HELP me, for the sake--AHHHFUCKugh--sake of...the ones we--love--oh please no....”

He could not speak anymore. He wasn’t sure he could scream any more, do anything but curl up and hold on until he passed out. Somewhere through the pain, though, he could hear Seb’s voice, soft and almost impassive.

“Perhaps we should wrap this up?”

Jim’s voice was loud and clear, scathing and scornful. “Squeamish, Seb? I didn’t realize he’d provoked sentiment in you, as well, darling.” The Irishman’s hand whipped up, and for a moment the thugs backed off, and John gasped for air as the onslaught was paused and the existing pain crashed in on him so strongly he could not breathe properly. His felt as though he was drowning.

Jim wasn’t finished taunting Seb. “I thought you’d gotten past the weak human shite when I slit your fuckin’ cop’s throat, luv...I told you there was no room for distractions, no room for fuckin’ feelings. Thought I’d bled you of your humanity when I bled him of his life. Thought you were mine, Tiger. Now, show me I’m right, stop being a cunt, and finish the fuckin’ job.”

Both men standing were still for a moment, and John tried not to make a single sound. Then Seb shook his head, taking a step back toward the fireplace. “No.”

Jim let out a long breath, looking irritated. Then like a cobra he struck, darting close and seizing Seb’s gun. In the span of a second and a half, he drew it, cocked it, and fired a round into Seb’s chest.

John would have screamed in horror if he could have, but he could only wheeze in disbelief as Seb fell, blood splattering across the hearth, John’s face, and the front of Jim’s previously pristine suit.

The madman himself merely sighed, as though it was just an inconvenience. Dropping the gun, he drew a handkerchief, turning back toward John as he dabbed rather uselessly at the suit. “I liked this jacket.”

John shuddered in fury as Jim stopped above him, staring down at him with heartless eyes. “The game was fun, Johnny boy...you were worth the while, even if you never quite broke. I’d like to think you would have, if I hadn’t brought Sherlock fuckin’ Holmes into this. Shame, that. I thought you’d be the key to getting him wrapped around my finger...seems he was the key to keeping you just out of my reach, forever. And now I have to go and put you down like a rabid dog. Damn waste, that.”

John could feel his heart slowing down, and he realized with abrupt and horrific clarity that he was feeling himself dying. He wondered if he’d bleed out before Jim got around to actually killing him. Somehow he felt as though he would rather it be that way. There was an odd shuffling and clanking in his ears, and he felt himself tipping backwards, landing on his back, unable to feel his legs or hands as Jim leaned over him, fingertips tracing over his blood-stained cheeks and neck. He pressed hard into a cut on John’s neck, making him yelp, and then growl in disgust as the Irishman raised his hand, slowly sucking the blood off his finger. Those bottomless black eyes bored into John’s.

“You were my favorite toy, Johnny boy...it was a pleasure making you mine, while it lasted.”

“He was never yours.”

Jim spun around, and John tried to move his head, shift his eyes, anything--and a nearly silent gasp slipped from him as he realized it was Sherlock, suddenly free and standing just behind Jim. The handcuffs dangled uselessly from one wrist, and one of the discarded knives was gripped tightly in his other hand.

Before the Irishman could move or speak, Sherlock’s hand flashed, and he stabbed Jim in the chest--then yanked the blade free and stabbed again, and again, plunging it into his chest and belly repeatedly, staining the front of his suit with blood.

Distantly, John realized the other two cronies had fled--whether they feared Sherlock, or saw Jim’s fall as a chance for freedom, he didn’t know. All he could register was Jim’s body, tumbling to the floor, his blood pooling around him in an ever-expanding puddle that drenched the carpet and made the tattered hem of his jeans damp as he tried unsuccessfully to edge away, unsure if this was real.

And then Sherlock was there, holding him--clutching him--grasping at his face, calling his name, and begging him not to die.

“...John...John--don’t--just stay, alright, stay with me--please--”

John struggled to find his voice, which was raspy and unexpectedly faint. “I...I won’t go, if you..you--promise not...to leave me...”

Sherlock looked stunned, then overwhelmed with relief to hear him speak. “Of course not,” he murmured, wiping blood from John’s face. “Of course I won’t leave.” His expression tightened, and then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to John’s forehead. “John...John, I--I heard you, last night. When you...thought I was asleep. I...I meant to answer you, but you’d fallen asleep. I should have said it anyway, I’m sorry. John, I love you, as well.”

John felt the air leave his lungs again. He tried to smile, but could barely feel his face, couldn’t tell what his mouth was doing. “Oh.”

Sherlock chuckled weakly, then glanced back, somewhere John couldn’t see. “Moran...Seb...is still alive. He’s the one who uncuffed me.”

John struggled to turn his head, just as they both heard a soft thunk. Behind them, still slumped by the fireplace, Seb had propped himself up against the mantle. A mobile phone lay by his hand--he had dropped it, but the screen was still lit with an outgoing call. “Dialed...999. Ambulance...should...be comin’...”

Sherlock’s jaw flexed, and he dropped his head, pressing his forehead to John’s. “John, I’m sorry--I need to call Mycroft. My brother. I won’t be far.” The last ended almost like a question.

John tried to smile and failed again. “S’okay.” He watched Sherlock stand shakily, grabbing Seb’s discarded mobile and hanging it up to make his own call. He was moving gingerly, clearly injured, but it didn’t seem too severe. John’s gaze swung to Seb.

The ex-soldier was watching him with tight eyes, even as he bled out over the hand he kept pressed to his chest. John rolled over, every movement sending fire through his body, and dragged himself the few yards to where the other man lay, keeping his broken hand off the ground. Neither of them acknowledged Jim’s still, cooling body, mere feet away.

John raised his good hand, still cuffed, and tried to put pressure on the wound. Seb gave a sighing sort of laugh, batting John away weakly with his blood-soaked hand. “Don’t...bother,” he wheezed. “I’d...rather...go...this way...really.” His gaze jumped to Jim’s still face, his eyes tightening with grief. “I’m...sorry, John...” Looking him in the eyes again, Seb swallowed, body shaking with the effort to get his words out. “You know...when...when Greg...died...when he...killed....Greg--” John swallowed, realizing that Greg must have been Seb’s lost lover. “--I...didn’t know...Jim...killed him. I tried...tried to love him...because...I didn’t...want ...to...fight any...more. Seemed...easier. But...never...could.” He was wheezing with every breath now, and John’s heart thudded painfully as he grasped the dying man’s hands in his.

“What can I do, Seb?”

The soldier looked at him in surprise, and John smiled painfully. “You let Sherlock go. You...saved me, in the end.”

Seb coughed, blood trickling down his chin, and shook his head. “I always knew...you’d...never...break. That...’s what you...can do...John. Don’t...let...anyone...break you.” Shaking like a leaf, every movement clearly draining him, Seb slowly raised his hand to John, his own blood sliding down his wrist in little streams.

John’s throat closed off completely, and he grasped the offered hand in both of his, ignoring the agony of his broken fingers and burned and sliced skin. As the soldier’s eyes fluttered closed, John leaned in close, pressing his lips in a faint kiss against Seb’s forehead.

The movement proved to be a little too much for his shattered body, and he slumped back with a cry of pain, Seb’s hand slipping from his. He could hear sirens and footsteps and a voice, a voice he knew so well, calling his name. Arms encircled him and he was cradled against someone’s chest, that beautiful familiar voice speaking gently, telling him to hold on.

His eyes flickered open for a heartbeat, taking in Sherlock’s blurry face leaning over him, brows knit in worry, and he almost smiled. “Sher...lock, I love...” he whispered, unable to get the words out. He heard the answer, though, knew that his lover understood. It was over.

His eyes rolled back, and he let the darkness tug him away from the pain, into sweet oblivion.


	11. We Can Learn to Love Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life moves on. The heart is allowed to, as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we reach the end, my friends! THANK YOU for your endless support! It has meant the WORLD to me. Your feedback is so appreciated.
> 
> Please keep an eye out for my next piece (which is all storyboarded and ready to go!), "Sparks Fly!" Also JohnLock.
> 
> Chapter title from "Just Give Me A Reason" by the ever-incredible P!nk.

TWO YEARS LATER

The visitor’s rooms of the rehabilitation clinic were clean and white, somehow managing to be both formal and welcoming at once. Maybe it was the earth-toned furniture and the potted plants, or the books and board games sitting on the table and bookcase. In any case, it did not feel like a hospital. It felt almost like an affluent home.

The barely-audible tap of the cane striking the cream-colored tile floor was the only sound as John Watson approached the door to the visiting room. He didn’t seem to particularly notice the limp, smiling with sincere warmth at the nurse who greeted him and unlocked the door to admit him.

When he stepped inside, he was immediately pounced upon by the ash-blonde woman who had been sitting on the edge of the sofa waiting for him. “John!”

He smiled softly at his older sister, accepting her embrace without any outward sign of pain. He never really let Harry see him wince or falter. 

John had woken in recovery at St. Bart’s Hospital almost three full days after the events at the club. At first he had been overtaken by sheer terror, certain that it had been a very vivid dream, convinced that Jim must have found out about his feelings for Sherlock and simply had them both beaten nearly to death. It had taken three nurses and two doctors to restrain him long enough for someone to fetch Sherlock.

The sight of his lover striding into the room, bandages across his face and visible beneath the collar of his as-always pristine Oxford shirt, had made John go practically limp with relief, his anxious cries dissolving into small choked sobs. Sherlock had ordered the room cleared--it was rather obvious how nervously they obeyed the icy-eyed man’s order--and had moved to sit on the edge of the hospital bed, gripping John’s hand and reassuring him that it had happened, Jim was dead, and they were safe. John was out of danger and thankfully awake now, so everything was going to be alright.

He remembered vividly the slight stab of regret that had pulsed through him as he’d whispered, “Seb?” He did not know why the soldier’s fate was so important to him; any true kindness Seb had ever shown him was subtle at best, and his final act of defiance to Jim--letting Sherlock out of the cuffs--couldn’t possibly redeem him for the months of torture and abuse he had put John through on Jim’s orders. 

And yet, when Sherlock pressed his lips tightly together and shook his head, it was genuine grief John felt. “He never meant to become that, you know?” He didn’t know how else to say it.

Sherlock sighed, stroking a finger over his bruised, scraped knuckles. “I did research him while I waited for you to wake up, curious why you might have felt some positive regard for him.” He met John’s gaze sadly. “His was not a happy story. He was given a dishonorable discharge from the military for refusing to obey a direct order, which resulted in most of the men in his unit getting killed. It did not say what he refused to do. When Moriarty found him, he was on the edge of tumbling into addiction and alcohol abuse in north London. The man he mentioned, the copper...he was in a relationship with a man named Greg Lestrade for four years before he joined the military, and they found one another again during his...service...to Moriarty. They were together nearly another year before Greg was ambushed on a drugs bust, savagely beaten, and killed. It was Seb who found him, with his throat cut and no record of a drug report ever filed for that address. Moriarty was truly cruel, trying to sever his emotional ties.”

John had looked away, taking a moment to grieve for a man who he may never have been able to call a friend, but whose torment at Jim’s hands he could more than sympathize with. Perhaps Seb had been right when he said it was better to slip away when he had. Perhaps he could have peace now.

It had taken four weeks for John to be released from the hospital, and two weeks for him to stop cringing away each time the door to Sherlock’s flat opened, certain that Jim had returned to take him away. Sherlock stayed by his side constantly, caring for him and comforting him as best he could. Slowly John began to realize that he was truly allowed to call 221B Baker Street his home now, and that Jim was never going to come near him--or look at him with those chilling, murderous eyes--ever again.

With the passing of more months, his health improved rapidly. Sherlock assured him that Harry was alright; John learned that the elder Holmes, Mycroft, was stepping in to cover his debts and care for both Watson siblings’ medical bills. He could not bring himself, despite his pride, to protest the charity.

Physical therapy helped him rebuild his strength day by day. His broken fingers healed, his hand regained full function, and with time the scars of cuts and burns faded to the color of the rest of his skin. Only his left shoulder, where the fire poker had apparently torn almost completely through to the bone, remained visibly mutilated. Almost a year after the night at the club, though, John was finally able to stand before the mirror he had insisted Sherlock place in their room (it still thrilled him to be able to call it “theirs,” not “Sherlock’s”), and gaze at his bare torso without recoiling from the marks that would always seem to sting.

His leg never did heal quite properly, either--the doctor told him that it had simply received too many stress fractures, not all of them mended, and during the beating that night, one of the thugs had managed to kick his calf hard enough to leave the bone essentially splintered, completely broken just below the knee. He would never again walk without a limp, even if over time it did fade to being relatively minimal. The cane had been necessary at first, and eventually he was just too used to it not to carry it with him.

When he officially felt like some kind of whole again, he had asked Sherlock about Harry. He was informed that Mycroft had upgraded her care, and she was well on her way to full sobriety. Soon she would even be allowed outpatient care, under the constant care of a private nurse. When John felt ready, Sherlock told him, they could go visit her. She had been told that John had been in a car accident that was taking him a substantial amount of time to recover from. Without a word said between them, they mutually agreed that Harry would never be told the truth.

Mycroft Holmes, as it turned out, was both the most disturbing and fascinating man John had ever met. He seemed to have limitless power, and he used it extensively. John found himself suddenly well-looked-after, and to his disbelief, able to consider his own ambitions for the first time in years. It had taken some serious thinking, but finally he had admitted his oldest secret wish to Sherlock, as they lay in their bed together: he wanted to go to medical school. Sherlock had voiced surprise, but John had firmly explained how he had always wanted it--he just knew it was an impossible dream while he was struggling with Harry. And now he could chase it. Besides which, he’d joked cheekily, if he was a licensed medical doctor, he could help Sherlock out with his cases, as a consultant.

And Sherlock certainly had cases. God only knew how, but Mycroft had done something that John could not believed possible--he had erased any evidence or history of Sherlock ever being anything but a fine, upstanding civil servant. The brothers seemed to have made their peace over Sherlock’s transgressions; in exchange for erasing Sherlock’s rather bloody footsteps, and concealing his and John’s involvement in Jim’s empire--and, naturally, his death (the headline had read, SUSPECTED CRIMINAL MASTERMIND BRUTALLY STABBED IN NIGHTCLUB. “Colorful,” had been Sherlock’s only remark)--Mycroft had forced Sherlock to opt for more “socially appropriate” work.

To John’s never-ending, absolutely disbelief and merriment, that work turned out to be the position of Detective-Inspector for the London Met. He couldn’t deny that Sherlock took to the police work with disturbing alacrity, but it was hilarious--and utterly secretly twisted--to see his lover transition from dark, mysterious genius to public servant and crime fighter so smoothly. He knew Mycroft had an eye on his brother, though, so he simply sat back and enjoyed watching Sherlock work.

And finally, when he was as well as he supposed he was ever going to be, living and loving with Sherlock under Mycroft’s watchful, unconventionally caring eye--he decided it was time to see Harry.

And that was how he found himself sitting on a sofa across from his older sister, stunned by the change that had taken hold in her. She seemed so healthy, better than he’d seen her in years. Her eyes were bright and her smile cheerful, long past the days of lying to convince him she was well just so she could run away.

Harry’s face broke into a wide grin as the door opened again, and a pretty young with dark hair and laughing eyes entered in a nurse’s uniform. She sat down in a chair next to Harry, returning her smile and greeting John with a demure nod. At his questioning half-smile, Harry giggles and introduced them: “John, this is Clara. She’s going to be my outpatient caregiver...she’s...she’s wonderful.”

Well, John thought, noticing the sparkle in his sister’s eyes as she beamed at Clara, that certainly explained the glow. Harry was sobering up, and finding love again. He was grateful; he hadn’t been sure he’d be able to surrender her to someone else’s care, even knowing that he was certainly not willing to leave Sherlock to take her on again, himself. But now he could feel secure, knowing she was getting the same kind of love and protection that he was.

Harry suddenly refocused on him, her eyes--so much like his own--sharp and inquisitive. “John, I never tried to ask before...I wasn’t really well enough to wonder, and you were always quick to get off the phone. But I’d really like to know...how we afforded this place. Not that I’m not grateful--” She flashed Clara a big smile, and the nurse squeezed her hand lovingly. “--but, we were practically on the streets. And then suddenly I was brought here and...John, how did we do this?”

John sucked in a slow breath. “What did they tell you?”

Harry’s lips thinned. “They said I was being sponsored by someone you knew. A man, but the only name they gave me was ‘Jim,’ which seems a bit unprofessional. Besides, we didn’t know anyone named Jim. And why would he do this for me? What did you do to get his help?” Her eyes darkened a little. “Also...I was told that he died. This Jim guy. They said he passed away, but that I was just getting transferred into better care, which makes no sense if the guy paying for my rehab died.”

John let the air back out in a soft sigh, almost relieved. They’d been courteously gentle with his sister, then. He suspected Mycroft’s influence. “That was all true,” he told her carefully. “I...was able to make a deal, similar to getting a bank loan, sort of--all paid off now, don’t worry,” he added, when Harry’s eyes widened fearfully. “We’re debt-free, Harry, it’s alright. I have...a caretaker of my own, now, in a way.” He smiled at Clara, whose eyes crinkled pleasantly as she returned the expression. He liked her already.

“A caretaker?” Harry’s voice was confused. “But you’re--I mean--”

John saw her gaze jump to the cane resting against his knee, knew she didn’t want to ask about his “accident.” He chuckled. “Well, he’s a bit of a personal caretaker, Har. He’s...” John trailed off, unsure how to describe the man he loved so much.

Harry’s eyes softened a little. “Everything?” she asked, her grip on Clara’s hand firm. John smiled, unable to do more than nod.

The door opened once more behind him, and John caught his breath as Sherlock entered, his heavy coat billowing rather impressively around him as he came to John’s side. His gaze flitted over the scene, naturally taking everything in, and John waited for him to handle his own introductions, as he always did.

Sherlock extended his hand politely to Harry, who was gazing at him with a mix of awe and irritation in her eyes--John anticipated many a snark-filled interactions at future family reunions. Family. He shivered slightly with pleasure at the thought.

His lover’s voice was low and resonant, unexpectedly civil as he addressed the older Watson sibling. “You must be Harriet--or Harry, I’m told you prefer. My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

Looking stunned, Harry shook his hand, then returned promptly to grasping Clara’s. “Yes,” she answered. “I’m...John’s sister. And this is Clara,” she added hastily. “My gir--uh, my...caretaker.”

Clara’s eyes twinkled as she accepted Sherlock’s handshake and did not back down under his penetrating stare. “Both,” she said, her voice musical and soft. “And I do believe you are also both, aren’t you, Mr. Holmes?”

John chuckled, officially cataloguing Clara as undoubtedly the best thing to ever happen to his sister. “Well, he’s not my girlfriend, no,” he said with a smile, and somehow that broke the ice. Even Harry giggled, and Sherlock smirked in his trademark way as he returned to John’s, leaning down gracefully to press a firm kiss to his lips, making him hum with contentment.

“Are you almost ready?” Sherlock asked softly. At John’s nod, he took a step back, willing to wait for him.

Harry looked at John with an open, happy smile--one he had missed sorely. “Well, I guess we’ll both be alright then, right, Johnny?”

He stiffened a little, but if she noticed she didn’t comment. Sherlock’s hand closed over his shoulder, and he accepted the comfort, letting the firm press of his lover’s touch reassure him that he was never going to hear that sing-songy Irish voice again. He was safe.

When they said their goodbyes, he felt more at ease than he had since before Harry had come back into his life, more than three years before, now. He embraced Clara, who put her number and address in his mobile so that he could always reach Harry. And when he kissed his sister’s cheek, he felt as though it was finally alright to let go of the control, just a little.

That night, tangled together in the sheets on their bed, John lay stretched out across Sherlock’s body. The slide of skin on skin, slick with sweat and excess lube, made John moan softly as he surrendered to the other man’s commanding touch. Sherlock’s hands gripped his hips with gentle possessiveness as John sank down onto him, riding him with a lazy passion that suited the peaceful quiet settling over 221B Baker Street. 

Fingers and lips explored each other’s bodies, and John whimpered faintly as Sherlock traced a hot fingertip over the ridges and furrows of the scars that criss-crossed his torso; his palm flattened over the gnarled skin of John’s shoulder before he pulled the shorter man down, bare chests pressing hard together as he kissed the wound, tongue probing the burned tissue with unquestionable love. John’s fingers threaded through his unruly curls, and he kissed the side of Sherlock’s face, adoring him silently.

Their eyes met, hazy with wonder and lust and the joy of being together after all they’d gone through. Sherlock’s eyes lightened to an iridescent blue as he cupped John’s face, kissing his lips softly. “I love you,” he murmured, hips flexing just to make John squirm with pleasure above him.

John gave a breathy laugh, tensing his lower body just to savor the way Sherlock cursed softly, arms snagging him even closer as they sat up together, John’s legs wrapping around his waist and Sherlock thrusting carefully up into his lover’s body. “Sherlock,” he whispered, his head falling back to grant his lover better access to his throat. “You know I love you.”

He felt the smile against his skin, felt those sinful lips drag up until their mouths met again. Between kisses, he whispered into the detective’s mouth, “I have to ask, though....do you regret any of it? If I’d never come into your life, you’d still have your entire little empire. You’d be living the life you built for yourself. Do you...” He cut off with a gasp as Sherlock gave a particular deep thrust, making his eyes flutter closed briefly, before he refocused. His voice was breathless. “Do you...regret losing all that?”

Sherlock cupped his face between those pale, beautiful hands, peppering kisses across his cheeks and nose and smiling gently when he drew back. “You know the answer to that, John...you’re the one who taught it to me.” At John’s confused look, he laughed, rolling them over and trapping John beneath the weight of his long, lean body, making the smaller man writhe with pleasure. 

“The people you love always come first.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Stripped [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1240204) by [KunEtJauneSarang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KunEtJauneSarang/pseuds/KunEtJauneSarang)




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